Pursuit
by CreepingMuse
Summary: "Is it so hard for you to believe someone would choose you?" "Hasn't happened yet." "Challenge accepted, Damon." Can Elena convince him he's the one she wants, body, mind, and soul?
1. That Guy

_Hey guys. Missed you! Glad to be back with a new story. The genesis for this one comes from Temptress-Kitten17 (thanks, Carly!) from a review she left on another story of mine. She said, "[Damon] might even get scared enough to run away [from Elena's love]...but they'll find a way back to each other." So I've had this one in my back pocket for a while, and it's finally time to explore what happens when Elena has to woo Damon instead of the other way around._

_I owe tremendous debts of gratitude to both WildYennifer and JWAB for betaing and helping me get the voice just right. Ladies, you're both amazing. _

_Please enjoy._

* * *

Give me some credit—I tried to do the right thing after the whole bridge debacle. I was prepared to ride off into the sunset and let Stefan and Elena have their happily ever after (and after, and after, and after). But I couldn't leave right away, couldn't just blow town after she woke up on that morgue slab gasping and lost. But now that I think of it, that was the easiest part of all this. Once we explained what was happening to her, she knew what she had to do. She drank down the glass of blood without argument or complaint-"For Jeremy," she said, her face grim but her voice firm- saving us from having to relive the dramatic Salvatore Transition Saga. Small mercies. Then she started crying. And didn't stop for three fucking days.

Oh, she wasn't crying because she was sad. She was crying because she felt the pain of every single person, animal, plant, paperweight, and molecule in existence. Yep, Elena's empathy, already self-destructive, became unbearable when she sprouted fangs. It sucked for everyone. Seeing her like that killed me, her face swollen with tears until she looked like some kind of be-fanged chipmunk. She sobbed and sobbed because Matt was in the hospital or because I beat the ever-loving shit out of Stefan (deserved it) or because Jeremy stubbed his toe or whatever hair trigger set her off that day. I wanted to punch Stefan again, trade a drop of his blood for every tear his idiocy had caused. But I didn't. This wasn't about him or me or our fucked-up family issues. So Stefan earned a reprieve, and I took care of her. As much as she'd let me, anyway.

Stefan let her cry, let her sob until her eyes were raw and red like meat. Said she needed to "let it out," whatever the hell _that _means. I let him try it his way for a day, but eventually I couldn't stand it any more and took over. Got her out of that tomb of a house she and Jeremy live in, away from the wandering ghosts and her own miserable thoughts. Took her into the woods, let her taste the air, taught her to hear the wind and move like a shadow. I was relentless with her, pushing her, rousing her, forcing her to run and sense and understand that hey, there are a couple of perks to this vampire thing. I wouldn't let her stop, wouldn't let her think or even feel, helped her lose herself in sensation. Eventually, her tears dried. I knew they would; when she's not being suicidal, that girl's a survivor. She figured it out, how to keep everything in balance, get those crazy emotions under control and start moving forward again. Gotta admit, I was proud of her. Still am.

But that was our last real day together. As the tears became more and more distant, as she remembered that she'd chosen Stefan, the asshole who let her _agency _herself to death, she pulled away from me bit by bit. The flood of texts and phone calls, asking for help, explanations, pleas just to make her smile, slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She walked right past my bedroom door, not even hesitating like she used to. No, now it was all about Stefan—cuddling in the firelight, serious talks with serious faces in the hall, muffled noises in the night. Caroline popped over regularly and the Three Stooges had vampire lessons. I don't know what they were teaching her; don't want to know. The girl has no chance of becoming a well-adjusted vampire (oxymoron) with those two as her mentors, but fine. Whatever. Her choice, right?

So once I saw that she was going to be okay, that she could pull herself together and carry on like the soldier she is, I tried to keep my promise to Stefan. There's nothing more tragic than a guy pining over a girl who doesn't love him back, is there? I didn't want to be that guy—I _don't_ want to be that guy. I wanted to give them both a shot at happiness. They both deserve it, even Stefan. Especially Stefan. But neither one of them could really be happy while I was around, and since I'm miserable wherever I am, might as well do it elsewhere.

I packed my bag, headed out the door and nearly ran her over there on the boarding house porch. She was hand-in-hand with Stefan, fresh from ripping the throat out of something fluffy, no doubt. She was smiling, and I was glad. Hadn't seen one from her in a while. But it faded when she saw the bag in my hand. "Where are you going?"

I hadn't really intended to say goodbye to her; what was the point? Besides, adieus might have set her off again, and I have no fucking defense against her tears. I blinked, trying to figure out a good answer. Going out for a pint of blood, be back in twenty years? Trying to get out of your life so you and my brother can lead a blissfully boring existence together? I was all out of snappy comebacks that day.

"He's not going anywhere," Stefan said. "Are you, brother?" He raised his eyebrows, all _hint, hint_. I looked at Elena. Her eyes, those giant Bambi eyes, were shining and hopeful and oh fuck. In an instant, I became that guy.

I shifted my bag to the other hand and painted on a smile. "Just over to the loft. Thought I'd give you two lovebirds some privacy here, but I'll be around. Can't get rid of me that easily."

If she can't let me go, then I have to stay. Yeah, I'm fully aware of exactly what that makes me. So I'll stay, but I can't live with them, can't listen to them. Hearing them make love (Stefan would never do anything so crass as _fucking _her) is bad enough, but I can deal with that. It's just sex. But I can't listen to the murmured I-love-yous, the whispered promises, the apologies and the explanations and more I-love-yous. I'd rather live with Ric's ghost than lie in the dark and play that game where I pretend Elena's words are for me. I'll be her emotional doormat and punching bag if that's what she needs, be the comic relief and the villain in turn. But I won't torture myself more than I have to.

I slid off the porch and walked to the car, glancing over my shoulder at the couple on the porch. That smile was back on Elena's face, tremulous but real, and as much as I hate myself for being pathetic enough to stay, seeing her with that bravely defiant happiness was almost, _almost _worth it.

That was a week ago. I haven't seen her since.

The bottle in my hand is empty. Don't know how that happened; could have sworn I just cracked it open, but there are only a few drops rattling around the bottom. I tip them back. I should get up and add the bottle to my collection, the little pyramid I've started; bourbon rubs elbows with whiskey while scotch holds the base. There are even a few bottles of tequila that snuck in during a particularly blue period. But I'm here, and that monument to my liver's tenacity is all the way over there. I stare at the ceiling.

This is my life now. Lying in a dead man's bed, drinking and waiting, stuck in eternal limbo on the off chance she might need me, all while she builds some undead life with my brother. But if they're really so steady, why does she need me here? Why can't she let me go, like she said she would? No. That way lies madness, Damon. Get it out of your head. She cares about you; that's a far cry from "it'll always be you, Damon," or "I love you, Damon."

For the thousandth time, I wish Ric were here. He'd kick my ass, roust me out of bed and tell me what a pussy I'm being. At a minimum, he'd bring me another drink.

I hear her before she knocks. Even as a vampire, she's loud, her footfalls distinct, the rhythm of her steps unmistakable. I'm glad I put pants on today, means I only have to scramble to find a shirt. I'm fastening the last button when she knocks. I don't answer right away, check my phone instead. She hasn't called, hasn't texted. Just a few scattered messages from Stefan, a couple from Caroline. That's depressing in and of itself. I shove the phone in my pocket.

As I pull the door open and see her standing there in her jeans and Chuck Taylors and that ugly ring Bonnie magicked up for her, I'm struck by how little has changed. Sure, now she smells like a lioness instead of a doe, now her body is quiet and still instead of humming and buzzing with life, her heart beating so slowly most doctors would miss it. But she's still Elena. I search her face. Strange. Doesn't look upset, no tear tracks, no swollen eyes. Her hands aren't clenched into fists like they are when she's mad at me. Now this is weird. If she's not upset and she's not pissed, why's she here?

"What is it? What's wrong?" I ask.

"Why do you think something's wrong? Can't I just come to see you?"

"Well, you could. But you usually don't," I reply.

She looks down. "Yeah. I haven't been a very good friend to you lately."

I shrug like it doesn't matter. Doesn't, really. "Don't sweat it; you've got bigger things to worry about right now." She doesn't say anything, just looks at me expectantly. Hm. I'll see where this goes. I step aside, sweeping my arm into the loft with a mocking bow. "As long as you're here, would you like to come in?" Not that she needs an invite, but hey, good manners are good manners.

Elena steps into the apartment. Her eyes flit around the room, taking in the changes I've made to the place. There aren't many. The aforementioned booze pyramid. New sheets on the bed, white cotton instead of Ric's gray flannel. Blood instead of beer in the fridge, though she can't see that. Otherwise, it's still Ric's place. I don't intend to stay here for long. God, please don't let me stay here for long.

She stops at the nightstand, fingers hovering over the stack of slim, battered books teetering there. "Were these Ric's?"

"No," I say. "_Death of a Salesman, The Iceman Cometh, Long Day's Journey into Night_. Just a little light reading." Nothing like mid-century American playwrights for wallowing in your own misery. She doesn't seem to get the irony, but she isn't really paying attention.

She slides a book from the bottom of the pile. It's the oldest but the most lovingly preserved, its dark leather cover gleaming with oil and a fond patina of age. "_Call of the Wild. _Your favorite, right?"

It used to be, but now I can only imagine what would have happened if Buck had been neutered on that steamship to Alaska. I gently pull the book from her hand, placing it back on the table. I smooth the familiar ridges of its cover with my fingertips. "You didn't come here to talk about literature."

"Maybe I did. We used to just talk about things. This summer. As awful as it was, we had fun sometimes," she says. She sits on the edge of the bed. The couch is over there, neutral ground, but she sits on the bed like she owns the place.

Huh.

I sit beside her. She's not wrong about that summer. Even in between The Great Stefan Hunt and Ripper Cleanup Patrol, we had some good times. When we combed newspaper databases for any news of my brother's latest psychotic spree, we made each other smile with ludicrous stories from all these small Southern towns, like the time a drunk poodle went on a rampage in some burg in Arkansas. Or there were those endless nights when we sat on her front porch in rocking chairs, telling each other stories so neither of us would have to face sleeping in a too-quiet, too-empty house. And I'll never forget that almost perfect day when I convinced her to leave the death behind for a few hours and go swimming in the quarry, just like I used to three lifetimes ago. Laughing and sparkling in the water in that tiny yellow bikini _(God, _that bikini!)_,_ she was almost happy, just for one day. And so was I.

But that was a long time ago, all of it. We were different people then—in her case, literally—and there wasn't a giant Stefan-shaped boulder between us. As beautiful as those memories are, they don't matter now. "What are you doing here? What are _we _doing here, Elena?"

Her shoulders shake as she takes a deep breath. She shifts so she faces me, twists her long fingers together. "I've been thinking." On her lips, those are the most terrifying words in the English language. "About us."

"There is no 'us.' You made that very clear." That was my fault. What kind of idiot wants to be told the _truth _when he's dying? This guy. I could have just kept my mouth shut, assumed she went back to Mystic Falls so she could comfort all the dying, like the Mother fucking Theresa she is. But no, I had to know who she chose, couldn't just tell myself that beautiful lie and head toward death with a sliver of happiness. Hell, at least last time we did this deathbed thing I got a kiss out of it.

"I know. I know what I said, and at the time, I meant it." Her fingers are still twisting, writhing like a ball of snakes. "But it's different now. I remember now." She looks up at me for the first time, all melting brown eyes. "I met you first," she says wonderingly.

I look away. "Who cares?" The words come out more harshly than I'd intended, but maybe this is how she needs to hear them. It's sure how I need to say them. "Who cares if I met you first? I couldn't have loved you then. Do you know what I was doing when we met?" She doesn't answer. "I was waiting for dinner, waiting to kill someone. And then there you were. You intrigued me, so you got to live. Don't read any more into it than that." Why am I telling her this? Fuck, I don't know. The words just keep coming. "And you couldn't have loved me, not like I was then. You met Stefan, and you loved him. You still love him." I'm almost accusing her, but I don't even know of what.

"I understand more now," she says, unflinching in the face of my tirade. "What it means to be...to be like this." Great. We can now bond over our loss of impulse control and gossip about which blood bank has the best stock. I exhale noisily, but she continues. "Your goodness. What you never let anyone see, the way you feel everything so intensely. I was scared before, couldn't understand, physically couldn't feel as much as you did. But now I do. I know why you are the way you are." Her hand, so soft and so cold, is on my face, turning me toward her. I can't look away this time; I don't want to look away. Then she's kissing me.

Right now, I have everything I've ever wanted. Elena is kissing me, and not some sweet little romantic peck, but a real kiss, tongue and all, demanding and needing. She smells sweet, like fake lilies and cheap lotion, but there's an animal undercurrent there, a musk that's new. Her lips taste like blood and I kiss her back, almost wild with wanting and hoping, reveling in her newness and her familiarity. I give it all I've got as her arms wrap around my neck, her hands tangling in my hair.

I want time to stop, I want everything to _stop _so I can live in this moment forever. Forget about Stefan, forget about the past, forget about everything but this creature who smells like a vampire but looks at me with the dizzying eyes of the most human girl I've ever met.

But my head—not the one I _should _be thinking with right now—won't let me enjoy it. _She still loves him. _I yank Elena closer, feel her nipples pressing against me through her thin t-shirt. She gasps. _Why is she choosing you now? Nothing's changed. _She breaks our lip lock, presses bruising kisses down my jaw, down my neck. Fangs scrape my skin and it's my turn to gasp. _It's still always going to be Stefan._

I can't take any more. My body's screaming at me to shut the fuck up, don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to, but I have to know. I can't do this just because she's horny, just because she and Stefan had a fight, just because she thinks she _understands _something about being a vampire now. I tug her face away from my neck like the moron I am just in time to see the last drops of blood fade from her eyes. _Fuck _me; I could cut glass with my dick based on that sight alone, never mind our tongue aerobics.

"What is this?" I want to kiss her again; I want to write terrible sonnets for her and shower her with flower petals; I want to drill her into this bed until she forgets her own name. But mostly, I want the truth. If she'll just give me the truth, then there will be time for all of it. "Why me? Why now?"

Her lips are swollen; her face is confused. If she says "I don't know what I feel" one more time, I swear to God-

"I want you," she says. I've dreamed of this moment a thousand times, but now that it's happening, the sound of the words is discordant. I don't know why. My mouth is dry and my ears buzz. "Like I said, I understand now. It all makes sense, why you are the way you are."

"What the hell does that mean? Why I'm violent, why I'm an asshole, why I lash out and cause those _bumps _you hate so much?" So this is it. Now that she's on the all-hemoglobin diet, she thinks she gets me? Does she think that being a vampire is all that I am? While human Elena wanted rainbows and unicorns, now she craves shadows and dragons so she runs to me, the goddamn prince of darkness? Is that what this bullshit is, just a flirtation with blackness before she stumbles back into the light, back to him?

"You mean a bump like this, like what you're doing right now?" There are those clenched fists. There's that anger. Good. I can handle her anger. I'm used to it. I can't handle whatever was happening before, don't even have a name for the way she looked at me, the way she kissed me.

"Face it, Elena—all we have are bumps." I stand, nearly dumping her to the floor.

"It doesn't have to be that way, Damon. Let me explain. I'm trying to choose _you, _I'm trying to tell you I lo-"

I cut her off, won't let her get that damning word out. She doesn't mean it, so I don't want to hear it, don't want her to regret her lie later. "Does he even know you're here?"

Her eyes brim with tears. "I'm _going _to tell him. The time wasn't right, and I thought that if we told him together he might understand." Of course he doesn't know. If he knew, she couldn't hedge her bets, couldn't keep him in reserve for when my bad boy allure runs out and she skitters back to the vanilla-bland safety of his arms. And she feels guilty about hurting _him_. Infuckingcredible.

The floor stings my bare feet as I stomp to the door. I fling it open. "Go. Go back to him."

The tears are gone. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to be here with you."

"You don't. Go back to the bunnies, Elena. Go back to pretending nothing's changed. He's the one who will make you feel human, not me." We both know it. We both know I'll drag her down with me. That's why she pulled away, why she let Stefan and Caroline teach her how to survive. She knows if she comes with me, she'll wind up a monster. And maybe I can't watch that happen, either.

She watches me, head canted to one side. She looks so like Katherine I panic for a split-second, sure this is all another one of that cunt's games. But then that avid curiosity fades, and there's something softer, gentler there. "Is it so hard for you to believe someone would choose you?"

I laugh. It's hollow. "Hasn't happened yet."

That softness is replaced by steel. Elena's made some kind of promise to herself, but I don't know what. "Challenge accepted, Damon."

I have no idea what she's talking about, but I don't care. I just want her to go so I can finally be weak, fall apart where she can't see me instead of being strong and doing what's best for both of us. Especially for her. The longer she looks at me, this girl who's risen again like a phoenix, the more my resolve wavers. Even now, I want to take what she's offering. But I can't. A moment's indulgence, maybe a few hours or days or weeks of happiness, but then disappointment, disillusionment, loss. No. It's better this way. "Go. Please go." My voice cracks. I hate it.

"I will. But only for now. I'm not giving up on you this time." It's a threat and a promise, but she's gone, the smell of false lilies and false hope lingering. I force myself to shut the door instead of slamming it, wait until I hear her thump down the stairs and out of the building.

I smash the glittering pyramid of bottles to the ground. Glass shards rain around me, cutting my hands, my feet. The iron scent of my own blood and the stale stink of liquor washes the lilies from the air.

And I'm alone.


	2. Sideshow

She's _so _not my type. Blond, for one. Short, carrying a few extra pounds, mostly in her tits, which almost makes up for the doughiness around her middle. Her makeup's been applied with a trowel, something thick and orange clogging her pores, her lipstick bleeding off her lips. Her name is Lisa. She's my good Samaritan, and she's perfect.

I thought about playing possum, but I didn't have the stomach for it tonight. So I played drunk (I'm a method actor) behind a bar in Lynchburg, pretended to hork my guts up in an alleyway. Lisa came to help me. She's currently helping a lot now that I'm gums-deep in her jugular. I'm trying to be neat, trying to be tidy, trying to content myself with what I can coax out of the twin pinpricks in her neck. But I want more. I want to pull a Ripper, tear her throat wide open, gulp and chew and _gnaw _on her throat until I only bite air. And why not? What has all my good behavior gotten me? Fuck all. A bellyful of pain, a head full of confusion, a...well, I don't have a heart, but if I did, it'd be full of something unpleasant_. _

After Elena left, after the glass shattered, I wanted everything and nothing. I wanted to run after her and pick up right where we left off, accept the love she offered me with trembling, fumbling hands. I wanted to turn the switch off and let all the emotion drain out of me until I am hollow and blank, remembering but unable to feel this pain, this pain I haven't felt since a night of rockets' red glare and fireworks, a night of grand gestures and broken necks.

I wanted to fight something; I wanted to fuck something. I wish Rebekah was here—could kill two birds with one stone. But that coward jackrabbited out of town after she got done playing road block on the bridge, just walked away and never once looked back.

I wish I were as brave as she is.

In the end, I didn't do any of the thousand things I wanted to do. Of course I fucking didn't. Look, I know everyone expects me to kick puppies and run buses of orphans off cliffs, but after Elena left, all I felt was tired. Couldn't sleep—that would mean replaying every moment of that awful, stupid scene with Elena over and over again in excruciating detail, analyzing every dumb thing she'd said, every moronic reaction I'd had. So I came here for a pick-me-up, running through the fog and the night, senses singing, body alive. So far, it's helping.

Lisa's moaning, her round body flopping in my arms. Her heart's reached the turning point—that moment where it reaches maximum velocity and begins its slow, certain descent into death. I want to make her mine, want to watch the light freeze and then disappear from those weak blue eyes, let that last spray of warmth slide down my throat. I want to ease her empty shell to the ground and close her eyes, kiss her cheek and let her live forever in my memory, forever in this moment.

How long has it been since I killed for the joy of it, just because it tastes and feels so fucking good?

Jessica. The last game I took for sport was Jessica.

I lose my appetite. I shove blood down Lisa's throat, shove memories into her head, and start the long walk home. Well, not home. To Mystic Falls. Whatever the hell that place is to me. I could flash back, run the thirty miles in ten minutes flat. But I'm in no hurry to get back to that place. For one thing, the blood from my little drama queen outburst will have dried on the hardwood floors; I'm going to have to use peroxide on it at least. I hope I won't have to break out the bleach, because if I do, I'll have to get the floor refinished and what a pain _that'll _be. Oh. Yeah. I'll also have to look at that bed where she kissed me, hear the echoes of her words, imagine the words I wouldn't let her say.

Look, here's the joke of it all: I never wanted to love her. After Katherine, I never wanted to love anyone; I _really _didn't want to fall in love with my brother's girl again. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. If at any time I could have taken some bullshit witch potion to fall out of love with Elena, I would have slammed that thing back like Caroline with a tequila shot. Even now, I'd probably do it. But I'm stuck loving her, probably forever.

And I knew from the start that we were always going to put the "un" in "unrequited love." How could someone like her love someone like me? Let's go back to our romantic first meeting—she was fighting with her mashed-potato bland boyfriend; I was trying to eat motorists. She smiled at me, trusted me, confided in me; I fucked with her head, stole memories from her. And hell, that was the _high point_ of those early days together. Though I hopelessly hoped, I always knew, deep down, no matter how much she was intrigued by me, curious about me, even _liked _me, she'd never love me. How could she? If I couldn't answer that question, how can I expect her to?

Even worse, now, after I'd dealt with the fact that while I couldn't leave her, physically or emotionally, I couldn't have her either, she chose to turn everything upside down with some half-baked declaration of...something. Declaration of understanding, of wanting, of that word I can't stand to hear her say?

That selfish bitch. What was I supposed to do, take her in my arms and accept that "I met you first" and "I know why you are the way you are" as acceptable reasons for fucking your boyfriend's brother, dallying with your dark side? Thoughtless, cruel, beautiful child.

There's fog in the air. I hear a couple of owls fucking in a tree. I wish I'd snagged a bottle from the bar. No I don't. I'm tired of being drunk all the time. It was pathetic (though understandable) when Ric did it; it's not a better look on me. I long for the days of recreational drinking instead of this pathetic need for oblivion. I kick a stone down the road, dribbling it along in front of me. I break into a jog—human speed, no vamp stuff. Just enough to get my blood pumping, to make my thoughts quiet and slow.

It doesn't help, isn't enough to drive away the most horrible thought of all: What if Elena really _meant _what she said? That she wasn't going to run back to him, that she realized she'd fucked up that night and was trying to make it right. Maybe I should have accepted that she's eighteen and sometimes she's kinda dumb and that the words didn't come out right and I knew what she meant and I ran anyway like a chickenshit. Because, okay, let's indulge in this delusion and play it out to its logical conclusion. I said yes to her. I accepted her lame explanation and her fevered kisses and told her yeah, Elena, I love you too, let's do this.

Now what?

What the hell do I do with an eighteen-year-old baby vampire? Forever? What, we're gonna buy a house with a white picket fence and a puppy? Whoops, can't get a puppy because she'll want to eat it because that's what Stefan the Wonder Vegan taught her, and like _that's _not going to cause a century or two worth of screaming matches. So I'm supposed to be her doormat, be a "good man" and pretend I like Caroline and play big brother to Jeremy and learn the true meaning of friendship? I can't see that happening. I just can't. And all that's to say nothing of Stefan. He's my (psychologically-fucked, martyr-y, sometimes-serial killer, always stalwart and true) brother. How do I ever make it okay with him that I've stolen the girl he thought he'd spend forever with?

But they're all stupid questions, because she didn't mean it. Couldn't have. Maybe it's impossible for one person to love both Stefan and me. Father didn't. Katherine didn't. Why should she be any different?

I break out of the woods and stare at the road signs at the intersection. If I keep going, I'll hit Route 4 and head back into Mystic Falls. Or. _Or_. I could go another way. Head north, bury myself in the bright lights of some big Yankee city, head south, set myself up on some modern-day plantation and play gentleman farmer, like I was always supposed to. Hop a plane, disappear. I should start walking the other way and not stop until I hit ocean. Never see her again; never see him again.

Straight ahead, there's nothing for me. Nothing except a girl who lies, a brother who hides, and a dead man's bed. Can't move forward, can't move back. Can't ever seem to really leave Mystic Falls and its sideshow of misery and horrors. But it's _my _sideshow of misery and horrors.

I twist my lips into a smile and walk on.

* * *

I'm not paying attention as I bang up the stairs to the loft. I've got my arms full of books, papers, ledgers, diaries—old crap I've just taken from the boarding house. Stefan won't miss it; doesn't even know what all's there. Hell, I don't either. But that's why I've got it. I need a hobby, an intellectual exercise outside of obsessing over her. Since all my friends are dead or don't actually like me very much, I've only got myself for company. It's lousy company, but better than nothing.

And while I'm stuck in this dead-end town, I might as well figure it out. Maybe if I can understand why Mystic Falls sucks so much—why it's _always _sucked so much, back to the days of Vikings and Indians—I can figure out where we went wrong. Where I went wrong. At this point, I'm betting on some kind of curse. Fucking witches. So I've got the collected Salvatore family records. Founders' shit. Other pieces of the detritus of living Stef and I have collected over the years. Maybe I've got answers.

It's not much, but it's something to hold onto. It's something to do. It feels good to have a plan, to have a purpose, even if it's only meaningful to me. That's something I need right now.

I juggle the pile of history in my arms as I fumble for Ric's keys, thinking about people and places that haven't existed in a hundred years. I step into the apartment, focusing on not dropping the unwieldy stack of stuff. Then I hear a heartbeat. Just one, slow and soft.

Vampire.

Papers explode everywhere as I leap for the sound of that single dead heartbeat over on the bed. My hand finds a throat and squeezes and it's good. My blood is pounding in my ears, my vision is tunneling toward my prey.

Elena coughs and sputters, eyes tearing with pain. My grip loosens, but I don't let her go. What the hell does she think she's doing here—and wearing _that? _I stare.

She's wearing a navy blue pushup bra, so dark it's almost black. It jams her boobs up by her collar bone, just barely covers her nipples with flimsy lace. Then nothing, an expanse of skin turned to gold by the light pouring in through the windows, weird flashes of red dancing on her flesh as the sun refracts off the broken, bloody bottles. Then more blue-black satin, just covering the split between her legs. Then lacy garters and stockings. I'm half-surprised that she's not wearing Converses with this whole get up, because it _is _Elena, but no, it's a pair of patent leather fuck-me pumps.

God. Damn.

Finally I remember that I'm still holding her throat, that she's still pushing against me, trying to throw me off. I let go and step back. She gasps, rubbing at the red marks that are already disappearing. Keep it together, Salvatore. This isn't your first rodeo. Hell, this is nothing you haven't seen before, right down to that little birthmark on her hip, right above the lacy band of her underwear.

But it's totally different. Even dressed like a reject from an Amsterdam brothel, there's still an innocence about her, a freshness that Katherine never had. I think it's the uncertainty warring with heat in her eyes, or maybe in the way she wasn't sure how to put everything on, how her left garter is twisted, digging into the top of her thigh. She's beautiful and desirable and young. Here. In my bed. Where she shouldn't be. No matter how much I want her, no matter how tempting the implicit offer is, this is not where she belongs.

I make my voice low and gruff, force myself to be _Damon fucking Salvatore _instead of the gawky prepubescent I feel like. "Was I unclear earlier?"

"Was I?" she snaps back.

"Yes! When someone throws you out of their place, you don't come back twelve hours later in slinky lingerie," I say.

"You think it's slinky?" Her face lights up at the quasi-compliment, and I groan.

"Way to miss the point, Gilbert."

She blows a strand of hair out of face, glaring up at me. She's forgotten about being sexy, is just being Elena now. I want to bite through that twisted garter, reveal every part of her in turn, make love and fuck her and do _it _and everything else I've imagined in vivid Technicolor scenes behind my eyes.

"I meant what I said—I'm going to prove to you that you're the one I want, Damon."

Oh. Oh, no. "Challenge accepted," she'd said. Elena Gilbert has a mission. _I'm _the mission. This is bad. Very bad. Not a single one of Elena's missions has ever worked according to plan, usually leaving a literal trail of bodies and a figurative trail of hearts in her wake. Sometimes, the hearts are literal, too.

"And you thought this was the right way to do that, to break into my apartment-"

"Ric gave me a key-"

"-and lay spread eagle in bed? You thought _that _was the right way to show that you want me?" I'm exhausted again. I sag onto the bed next to her. She puts her hand on my shoulder, but I slink away from her touch. There's hurt in her eyes and I don't care.

"I have to do _something_ to show you. I know you liked kissing me last night. I could...feel it," she says stubbornly. Tiny amounts of blood rush to her cheeks, so faint I doubt a human could see it. It's a vampire blush. It's adorable. And _of course_ she could feel "it" last night-I've been having a passionate, monogamous relationship with my hand after that last disastrous tryst with Rebekah, while Sage listened downstairs, licking her chops and waiting. I'm not fucking made of stone.

"That's not the point," I start, but she doesn't let me finish.

"I want you, Damon." She's affecting some high, kittenish voice. It's weird and wrong. She leans back on the bed, unfurling her body for me. I lick my lips. She runs her hand between her breasts, moving down, down. Her chest heaves with a breath she doesn't need. She's trying to meet my gaze, trying to be sexy, but she's embarrassed, keeps staring at my hairline instead of my eyes. I wonder if she's gotten advice from Caroline—this seems right out of the Forbes playbook, just handled with less panache, because Elena Gilbert is _not _this girl. But still, I smell her. She's convincing herself, if not me.

I grab her hand, stop its descent. It feels like I've stuck a fork in a toaster, an almost painful electrical jolt. She stares up at me questioningly. She licks _her _lips. "Didn't they tell you?" I ask softly.

"I don't want to talk about anyone but us."

I shake my head. She needs to hear this, needs to know why she's acting like this. If the Vampire Brain Trust didn't tell her, then I'll have to. "It's not just your emotions that get turned up when you change. You want more of everything—more feeling, more blood, more food. More sex. It's a biological response, helps you-" It helps you attract prey, helps you entice the lonely and the desperate to their deaths. I don't say that. "It's just part of it. What you're feeling isn't real, isn't what you want." I wish it were. But I know it's not. And I know I don't want her like this.

"That's not true," she says. She squeezes my hand with all her strength. I wince. "I'm not doing this for me, I just thought..." she bites her lip, thinking hard, trying to figure out the right words. I'm pretty sure there are no right words. "I'm doing this for _you. _Isn't this what you want?" Her voice is shaking. I tell myself I don't care.

I feel old, feel every one of my years. Of course she'd think that. After all, that's the only way she's seen me with women, isn't it? Caroline. Rose. Andie. Rebekah. Of course she'd think that's what I'd want. I haven't shown her anything else, so how could she think differently?

It's not her fault. Well, it's her fault she's got this stupid plan into her head, that she's convinced herself that she wants me. But it's never been her physical beauty that drew me to Elena, not once I figured out she wasn't Katherine. Hell, it was a negative after Founder's Day—it was hard for me to look at her without remembering what Katherine had done. No, while Elena's easy on the eyes, it's not the long hair and the long legs and the anime eyes that draw me to her. It's _her_, that she's the kind of girl who would get gussied up and try to seduce the man she's deluded herself into believing she wants. She's the one girl it's never been about sex with. Well, not _just _about sex.

I free my hand from hers. I unhook that twisted garter and turn it so it lays flat, smoothing it along her thigh. I refasten it, stroke the silken fabric with my thumb. I lean close, lips hovering inches from hers. "If all I wanted was to fuck you, Katherine offered to let me call her Elena," I purr cruelly.

She recoils from me like I've slapped her. I can't convince myself that the pain that twists her face doesn't affect me, but I can hide the hurt from her, make my expression cold and haughty. This is how it has to be. The sooner she realizes that, the better for both of us.

"You're an asshole, Damon Salvatore," she says. I'm relieved. "Yesterday, when I said I knew why you are the way you are? It didn't have anything to do with being a vampire. It just hit me, one night after you moved out. You're like this, with your jokes and your smirks and your hateful comments, because you're so desperate not to let anyone see how much you love and how much you hurt, so you say things like that, pretend not to care, and you think I'll realize you're not worth it. But you are. And I'll make you see that." She touches my cheek and then she's heading for the door, stumbling a little in her too-high heels, her back straight and unbowed. She grabs her long jacket from the back of a chair and buttons it. She looks at me. "If you change your mind, I'll be at home. At _my _house. He knows."

The door shuts behind her. I stare at it for a long, long time.


	3. Flatfooted

_You guyyyys. You're the best. Thank you so much for all the wonderful, kind, grin-inducing reviews. They genuinely make my day, so thank you. As it so often does though, special thanks go out to WildYennifer whose smart conversation and excellent music recommendations help me focus my thoughts, and whose betaing keeps me on track. Дякую, darlin'._

_Now that we've dispensed with that, how about we continue our little tale?_

* * *

I lob the plastic bag into Stefan's suitcase. A fluffy tail flops out. "I brought breakfast," I announce.

Stefan picks up the bag with his thumb and forefinger and sets it on his bed. He crams another shirt into the suitcase. It's a wadded mess and I want to refold it, but I restrain myself. "You know, I have a whole new appreciation for this diet of yours. Rocky there was a bitch to catch." Seriously, who knew raccoons bite?

Elena clip-clopped her way out of the loft an hour ago. It took me a few minutes to recover from the dual shock of seeing her ass in that teeny, tiny pair of panties and her revelation that _she'd told Stefan._ Once my brain was fully functioning again, I slowed down long enough to catch Stefan's meal before I beat feet over here. I know I shouldn't enable Stefan in his perverse quest to eat his way through Noah's Ark when he should be looking higher up the evolutionary ladder, but he could probably use some comfort food right about now.

He looks better than I thought he would, though. I assumed I'd find him an inconsolable blob in the corner, but he's not. I mean, he's all furrow-y and has his lower lip pushed out petulantly, but that's just kinda what his face looks like. His eyes are a little red and there's a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, but he's functioning. I probably should be relieved I don't have to break him out of a blubbery funk, but I'm not. I'm actually kinda worried about how okay he seems. Am I going to find a basket of heads in the basement? I make a mental note to check before I leave.

"Did you come here to gloat?" he asks. Yeah, that's what I came here for. To gloat because I'm just so thrilled that instead of being the only miserable one, we can all wallow in unending _Sturm und Drang _together. Watch me struggle to contain my joy.

"Nothing to gloat about, Stef. Well, besides that I'm the smarter, better looking, _and _better endowed brother, but that's nothing new," I tease. "But I assume you're talking about Elena. Look-"

He cuts me off by huffing a massive sigh like he usually does whenever I open my mouth. It didn't use to be this way. As a tot, Stefan worshiped me. No, seriously. Followed me everywhere, wanted to do everything I did, whether that was riding a wild new stallion, reading dangerous books like _Uncle Tom's Cabin _in secret, or dancing scandalously with the prettiest girl at a party. Wherever I went, there he was, watching. When I signed up for the Army of Northern Virginia when he was just fourteen, too young to enlist, he cried and sulked for days until I promised to bring him a Yankee scalp. Where did we go wrong, Stefan and I?

Oh. Women. Right.

"Don't play dumb. Elena left me for you and now you want to rub my nose in it. Go ahead," he says dourly.

"I told you, there's nothing to gloat about. We aren't together," I say with studied casualness. "But out of morbid curiosity, what did she say?" I know I shouldn't make my brother relive his dumping, but I have to know. Just add it to the long, long list of things I'll make up to him one of these days, along with the forgotten Blue Coat scalp.

Stefan turns away and walks to his chifforobe, pretends to be engrossed in his never-ending supply of hoodies and earth tones. "She said that she knew she should stay with me, that her head knew I was the right choice. But her heart wanted you, and she couldn't ignore it anymore. Said she loved me enough to let me go."

"So she's recycling break-up lines now. Resourceful," I say, but it's half-hearted at best. What does that mean? Why can't that girl ever just give a clear answer- "I want to be with Stefan because he makes me feel like a pretty pretty princess and never questions my decisions," or "I want to be with Damon because..." I can't even finish the sentence in my own mind, can't fill in the blank. I also can't argue with her; logic and reason both dictate that Stefan's the right choice. And yet...

"Do you want to punch me? You felt better the last time you punched me," I offer. He hits like a girl anyway. Or so I pretend as I brace myself for the blow.

He looks tempted for a moment, raises his right hand in a clenched fist. Then he drops it with another melancholy sigh. He turns to the chifforobe and pulls out a pair of Chinos. "I saw it coming. I'd be more upset if it had been a surprise." He folds the pants sloppily and tosses them into the bag. "She tried to love me like she used to. I think she wanted it to be like the old days. But it was never the same."

"Oh, cheer the hell up. Just wait an hour and she'll change her mind again." I shrug and upend his suitcase on the bed, scattering clothes and books.

"Dammit, Damon." He mopes his way over to the bed, starts to refill the bag. "We had a deal. I'm just trying to keep my word."

"Why? I didn't keep mine," I remind him cheerfully.

"That was different. She _needed _you."

"And she's gonna need you again when she realizes her head's gonna win the fight."

"She doesn't want me. If she doesn't want me, there's no reason for me to stay." He reaches for his diary, but I'm faster. I snatch it from his hand.

"Please—you've got so much to stay for." He jumps for the diary, but I hold it out of his reach. "There's your school career to think of. And...um, Caroline likes you, so that's something, I guess?"

"Give it back, Damon. Just let me walk away. Let me give the two of you a chance," he says. I squint at him. He's all hero hair and earnest eyes. I think he actually means what he's saying. Typical dumbass Stefan.

"There's zero chance because we aren't together," I say. "And besides, bros before hos. She's just a girl." _But she's a pretty special girl. _I swat the echo away. Girls come and girls go, but blood is blood. And if, in the impossibly remote chance that Elena doesn't change her mind and something potentially possibly _maybe _happens between us? If she can't deal with Stefan being around, then she's not the girl I thought I loved anyway.

He stops lunging for the diary and looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since I walked into the room. Takes a step toward me. "If I didn't know better, I'd say _you _want me to stay."

I scoff, put on my best smirk. "Of course not. I'm just saying you've dealt with a year and a half of high school; it seems a waste to throw away your shot at getting into a good college now." I hold the diary out to him.

He takes it and quirks a crooked smile. "You too, brother," he says. "You too."

I nod and look away. Too mushy. Better wrap this up. "Now, you eat a nutritious breakfast and skedaddle on to school. Study hard for those SATs." I stroll to the door, hands shoved in my jacket pockets. I hear plastic rustle behind me and smile.

"Hey, Damon?" I turn. He's peering into the bag at the dead raccoon. "She means it. Don't be an idiot." He finally looks up, and he's that fourteen-year-old boy with hopeful eyes. Maybe now they're dimmed a bit by the passage of years, but he's still that watchful, sensitive child. "If it can't be me, I want it to be you. If I'm not what she wants, I want her to have you."

I turn on my heel and leave.

* * *

Biggest discovery of the afternoon: Witches have shitty handwriting. I've been sitting in the Richard Lockwood Memorial Founding Documents Room at the Mystic Falls Library for hours, delicately paging through crumbling books with white-gloved hands. I think my eyeballs are about to fall out from deciphering the crabbed, faded handwriting on these seventeenth century papers.

Whining aside, it's worth it. These are the very first records we have of Mystic Falls (well, except for those cave drawings, but I'm kind of sick of Originals right now), back when the first coven of witches relocated here from Salem in 1692. While I'm not fluent in witch, I'm pretty sure they chose the site because the falls, the caves, the hills, and the oak forests created some kind of mystical convergence point (hence the hokey name of our beloved town). Something about all the elements being in balance made a place that was perfect for a bunch of witches on the lam.

I tug my right glove off with my teeth and pick up a pen. Taking care to make my penmanship better than the witches', I jot notes on a legal pad. _Did the convergence draw Esther and Ayanna to MF like it did the Salem coven? Does it draw vampires? Does it keep us here? Witches + Doppelganger = Vampire. How are we connected? _I underline the last sentence with thick black strokes. There's something here, some idea I can't tease out. There's a connection between this place and us, a reason so many vampires are drawn here and get caught like mosquitoes in amber. But right now I've got more questions than answers. That seems to be a recurring theme in my life right now, but I don't want to think about that. Don't want to think about my brother's self-sacrificing words (the overly-dramatic martyr) or Elena's fierce promise. I just want to think about dead sorceresses, local landmarks, and old blood. Is that so much to ask?

I turn back to the grimoire I'm trudging through when I hear the door hiss open. I expect it to be the librarian kicking me out for the day, but when I look up, it's Elena.

Thank God, she's abandoned the sex pot thing for her usual jeans and sneakers, topped with a shirt the color of bruised plums and a black leather jacket. She's carrying a bulging backpack as big as she is like it's full of feathers. I'm still getting used to her like this, remembering how strong she is. I always knew she was pure steel on the inside, but it's hard to remind myself that she's made of sterner stuff on the outside, too.

"Hey," she says.

"Stole my line," I say lamely. What do I say now? I don't know what to do; I've been trying not to think about her and me (us?) all afternoon, to lose myself in these extinct worlds. And I never thought she'd find me here—who would expect _me _to be at the library? I'm flatfooted and I don't like it.

"Oh, sorry," she says, tucking a long hank of hair behind her ear. She swings that overstuffed backpack up, nearly brings it down on top of a letter from Constance Bennett to her sister back in Salem. I rescue it right before the bag comes crashing down on top of the brittle parchment.

"Kids today," I say as I smooth the letter. "No appreciation for history."

"Sorry. Again. I've been saying that a lot lately." She seems to notice the piles of mouldering old books and scraps of paper for the first time. "What is all this?"

"Just stuff. Just old stuff." I feel weirdly awkward at her finding me like this. I don't know why, but it makes me feel...naked? And not in the fun way.

I pull my right glove back on and start packing the items back into their storage box. Not gonna get any work done with her here, and she might accidentally wipe out a hundred years of history with a sneeze.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I ask, wanting to shift the attention away from me. The last thing I want is to talk about me. "Thought they only let researchers back here."

"My mom was good friends with Mrs. King," she says. The librarian. Figures. Small towns are incestuous. "I was on my way to the loft, but I saw your car. It's kinda hard to miss. So I stopped in and Mrs. King let me sneak back."

"Oh." She was on her way to the loft. Again. How long are we going to play this game? How many times do I have to hurt her, humiliate her, push her away before she gets the fucking message? We can't be together. We only fit together in fevered dreams and dying wishes, not in the real world. We can't keep doing this.

I put the lid on top of the box and strip off my gloves. "So. What do you want?"

This slow grin unravels across her face. I can't remember the last time I saw her look so genuinely happy, and I find myself smiling back before I can stop myself. Not a smirk, not a sneer or a leer, but an honest-to-God smile. There may be dimples involved; I can't say for sure. The instant I realize what's happening, I wipe that shit-eating expression off my face. I don't want to lead her on, even if that mischievous smile of hers makes every muscle in my body clench and relax at the same time.

Nothing has changed, Salvatore. So she broke up with Stefan. Big fucking deal. How many times have they broken up now? I give it a week, two tops. She always thinks she can live without him, but she never can pull it off. She needs him.

"I've been doing some research of my own," she says, unperturbed by my suddenly stony face. "And I made you something."

My curiosity is piqued despite my best efforts. I can't remember the last time someone gave me something. No, wait. Last Christmas, when Ric gave me a surprisingly decent bottle of Glenfiddich but I hadn't gotten him anything so we shared it (and a couple of other bottles) and woke up on the lawn that gray Christmas morning. I never did find my pants. I almost smile again at the memory, but I can't manage to smile about Ric yet.

I snap back to the present and Elena's rummaging around in that gigantic bag of hers, pulling out Tupperware containers and Thermoses and plastic cutlery. I quirk a brow. "What exactly have you been researching?"

"I was looking in some of Stef—in some old stuff at the boarding house," she says. Almost fumbled the ball, but nice recovery. "I found your letters," she says.

He kept them? I never even knew if he got them. Well, obviously he got the letters I sent during the War, back when we wrote each other nearly every day. But after our falling out, every now and then through the decades I'd feel nostalgic and drop a note in the post to him. Half of them were taunts and recriminations (eternity of misery, remember?), but the other half was stuff only he'd understand, stuff only another Salvatore would get. I reminisced about the old days, about long-gone places and long-dead people, about how it was when life was simple and sweet. I know, I know. Pretty sentimental and stupid of me. But no matter how much I hated him, he was still my brother. There were still things about me only he understood, things I needed to try to say to him, even if I never really said them right. He never wrote back, but I didn't expect him to.

"First, way to be a snoop, Elena." I reach for a Tupperware. "And second, what do those old letters have to do with-" I crack open the container and freeze. Inside is a biscuit, perfectly golden brown on top. It's split in half, revealing flaky layers and a thick, luscious ooze of apple butter, redolent with cinnamon and clove. "How did you—I haven't-" I've been reduced to incoherency by a baked good.

"Like your nurse used to make for you. What was her name?" Elena asks innocently, but she already knows.

"Hattie. Her name was Hattie." I haven't thought about her in years. I never heard what happened to her after the War; probably fled north like most of the other slaves. I dip my finger into the sticky jam and put it to my tongue. It tastes like fall, like golden afternoons and warm, soft embraces. "You made this?" _For me?_

"That, no. After my first baking experiment, I left it to the professionals. Caroline makes a mean biscuit," she says almost apologetically. "She helped a lot; she likes projects. But I did what I could."

I'm half-glad she didn't make it because I've _had _her cooking, but then she's opening other containers and there's no time for cynicism because every damn Tupperware catapults me back in time. There's thick _pappardelle _ tossed with olive oil and a flurry of black pepper and I'm slammed back to the summer kitchen with Stefan and Mother. Whenever Father was away, we'd chase the slaves from the kitchen and she'd take over. Stefan could barely see over the counter as she rolled the sheets of dough, flour hanging in the air like snow. There's a pitcher of sweet tea spiked with clumps of mint leaves and I'm back on the verandah on a sticky summer night, drinking glasses of the stuff beaded with condensation and trying to sneak my hand up Penelope Davis' petticoat. There's even a little jar of pickles and I can almost smell cheap beer and Georgia peaches.

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. All I can do is breathe in these memories.

"You don't like it," Elena says uncertainly. "It's just, in all those letters, you kept talking about food and how it reminded you of when things were simpler. I just thought—I thought it might make you happy."

I should push her away again; I should hurl the containers to the ground and tell her how stupid it is to bring food to a vampire, snarl at her like some low-rent Bela Lugosi that I want blood. That's what I need to do, send her scurrying away again, convince her that this is the kind of gesture Stefan would appreciate, not me. That's exactly what I should do.

"You shouldn't have done this. But since you did, pass me the sweet tea." I can go back to being a dick after dessert.

We eat and we talk, ignoring every rule of library decorum. We don't mention that nebulous _us_ thing, don't talk about romance or brothers or bloodlines or anything of importance. Between bites, I tell her about what life was like before the War, about the dances and the dresses (I leave out all the parts about the slavery and oppression); she tells me about how she almost failed Home Ec when she mixed up baking soda and baking powder in her snickerdoodles.

She brought a Thermos of AB-negative. It's rare and hard to find at the blood banks. It's also my favorite— smooth and mellow like a good Cabernet. I pour some into the little cup and offer her a swig without thinking. I swear to God I wasn't trying to be a jerk; I was trying to be _nice_. I forgot she was on the Stefan Salvatore Diet.

She wants it. Her veins cry out for it, faint shadows whispering under her skin. My own fangs threaten to break free at that predatory, gorgeous, _hot _sight. Goddammit, why won't she let go? I want her to give in and see what she was made to be. It'd be easy to convince her. She's craving it, dying for it like vampires always are. But she shakes her head and begins to tear a biscuit into tiny pieces. "I'm good. Thanks, but I'm good."

I nod and let it go with only a twinge of regret. Hey, it's just more proof she's Stefan's girl, since they share the same eating disorder and all. But I don't want to think about him right now. I want to see that smile again. "So, did I tell you that I caught a raccoon this morning? I think the little fucker was rabid." I launch into a long and exaggerated tale and gulp the blood down and put the Thermos away. She throws her head back and laughs and laughs at my valiant struggle against the dastardly beast.

But once I've finished, her expression turns serious. "Why were you hunting animals? That's not really your thing," she says.

"Needed a new hat," I say. "Coon skin caps are all the rage in Paris." We're _so _not having this conversation.

"Uh huh. It had nothing to do with you trying to be nice to your brother, who just so happens to like raccoon blood?"

I don't say anything for a long time. I finish my paper cup of tea, study the melting ice cubes with interest. "Call it a peace offering," I say quietly.

I steal a glance at her from the corner of my eye. She wants to pry, wants me to admit that I did it because I have mushy, squishy feelings for Stefan and we share a brotherly bond and I should let people _expect _good from me and blah blah whatever. But she doesn't. Opens her mouth once, then closes it. Kind of nods at me, and then dives into a story about Caroline mistakenly hunting a bobcat and I'm laughing and she's laughing and whatever just passed between us has evaporated into the air.

I know this can't last. I know this laughter and fun isn't us, that the screaming and the tears and "maybe that's the problem!" and "I'm not Stefan!" are what's real between us. But for an hour, I let myself pretend this _could _be us.

We laugh a lot. We eat a lot. All too soon it's over and I'm wiping up crumbs and she's packing the Tupperware away. She reaches into the bag, digs around at the bottom and pulls out one last container. "I made this one all by myself," she says. "Save it for later." She holds it out to me. I close my hand around it, but she doesn't let go. "Have I convinced you? At least a little?"

As far as Elena Gilbert plans go, this one didn't suck. But Stefan's out there, waiting for her to snap out of it and realize that no matter what her heart wants (and her logic is basically shit—hearts can't _want _things; they're just muscles), he's the one for her. He'll make her happy in ways I never could. I was weak to accept what she offered me today. But I did, and now I have to deal with it.

I smile with my mouth but not with my eyes. "Thanks, Elena," I say.

She releases the Tupperware, that happy glow fading just a bit. She leaves with a tight-lipped smile and a muttered goodbye. I wait until I hear her drive away before gathering my notes and my doggie bag and making my way to the loft.

I sit at Ric's tiny table and open the container. It's a slice of the ugliest apple pie I've ever seen. The crust is raw in places and scorched in others; the apples are a gummy mess. I think that's cheddar cheese melted on the top, and what the fuck kind of communist puts _cheddar cheese _on apple pie?

I eat every bite.


	4. House of Cards

_Whew. This chapter kicked my butt, guys. It just didn't want to come. I hope that the struggle was worth it. As a result, this chapter is a little shorter than the others, but I'd rather give you 2,300 words I'm happy with than the 3,000 words of eh I originally had._

_ Special, superduper gratitude goes out to my girls WildYennifer and JWAB who helped me realize that I needed to nuke the original Chapter 4 from orbit and start all over again. Ladies, thanks for sticking with me and always having faith in me, even when I don't have it in myself._

_Oh, fair warning. We're playing with vamp powers in this chapter, so if it isn't 100% canonical, well, I hope it's at least still fun. Thanks, guys. You're great._

* * *

I'm not avoiding Elena. I'm just doing a really good job of making sure we aren't in the same place at the same time.

I know, I know. She's the only reason I stayed in this rotten fucking town, so I should at least be there for her, right? And I would be if she really needed me. If the Originals came back to town or Elena started getting an urge to eat babies or something, I'd be there in a heartbeat. But I made a mistake at the library. I was dumb and overwhelmed and so I gave in and had a really good time with Elena. Too good. It can't happen again.

I'm not doing this for me. Not because I'm scared to open my heart and love again or whatever self-help bullshit you want to spout. I'm doing it for_ her. _Sure, she's called it quits with Stefan, but that doesn't mean I'm magically the man of her dreams now. Even if she doesn't go running back to him (and I have my doubts about that), I'm still not the one to make her happy. I'm the one who will force her to do things she doesn't want to do, push her further than she wants to go, drag her down into dark places she's never even dreamed of. That's who I really am. And she can have a selective memory all she wants, only remember our deathbed smooch, our summer together, our Denver make-out, but I can't forget all the other times. I can't forget what I've done to her. Or what she's done to me. All the pie in the world can't change who we are.

So no more study parties at the library, no more drinking sessions at the Grill. I haven't even been at the loft much. I've taken to roaming the woods during the day, wandering the ruins of old Mystic Falls—the caves, the Witch House (exterior only—I don't trust those bitches), the Lockwood estate, our own ruined home. I don't find anything, don't understand anything better being in these places that have meant so much to the town, so much to me. But it gets me thinking about something else besides that day at the library, keeps me from remembering Elena's smile and her laughter and _my _smile and _my _laughter. At night, I hit every dive bar in the tri-county area, drinking blood from floozies and bourbon from the top shelf in nearly equal measures.

A few times I've caught a fleeting glimpse of long brown hair or a familiar car skulking around, but I made myself scarce and she went away. I read her texts religiously, but never respond to her smiley-ridden missives, requests to meet, flirty little messages about nothing. Anything I say or do will only make this harder. So I keep my distance and keep my mouth shut.

Tonight, I spent the evening at a charming biker bar in Concord, where I was asked "what're you looking at, pretty boy?" no less than five times by giant, hygienically-challenged men. It normally wouldn't be my kind of place, but with all the noise and alcohol flowing, it's easy pickings for a lazy vampire. And tonight, I'm _definitely _a lazy vampire.

I stumble back to the loft, comfortably sated with blood and comfortably numb with two-for-one draft beers. For once, I don't spend hours tossing and turning in bed. I fall asleep immediately.

Elena's waiting for me.

We're sitting on the banks of the quarry, our faces turned toward a too-yellow sun. The water spreads away from us, flat and glassy, fading into smoky mist in the distance. She's wearing that familiar, itsy-bitsy bikini. I'm in black swim trunks that seem to be just a smidgen tighter than I remember them. I can tell a vampire dream from a mile away, and there's no doubt about what this is. Elena built this world in my head.

This is problematic for roughly a billion reasons.

"What the fuck, Elena?" Not that I have any room to talk about the morality of digging around in other people's heads, but I'm still pretty pissed at the invasion.

"Well, you wouldn't talk to me. You've been avoiding me non-stop and I wanted to see you," she says defensively. "At least you can't run away here." She gestures vaguely to the fuzzy, off-kilter dreamworld she's built.

"First of all, I haven't been running, I've been _busy, _because believe it or not, there are other things in my life besides you." Like thinking about you. Obsessing over you. Drinking while thinking and obsessing over you. It's all part of the rich tapestry that is my life. "And second of all, _how _are you doing this?"

It's not technically impossible for her to be dreamwalking on me right now, just highly improbable. I stopped drinking vervain after the Originals left—seemed stupid to drink battery acid on the off-chance they might come back and try to compel me. Dumb call, and one that will be rectified the instant I wake up. But still, she's a month-old vampire being taught by morons and drinking critter blood; I'm a cagy 170-odd-year-old vampire fortified with bikers. How the fuck is she in my head?

"Does it really matter? I'm here and you're here and it's a long time until morning," she says, dabbling her feet in the water. Her toenails are painted yellow, like the sun. "Do you want to take a swim?"

"What? No, I don't want to swim. I want you to tell me how you did this. You shouldn't be able to do this." I'm kind of freaking out. This isn't supposed to happen. She shouldn't be in my fucking subconscious.

She leans back on her elbows. "I don't know how, exactly. Stefan mentioned once or twice that vampires could do this, and I was laying awake tonight thinking about wanting to see you and I felt...you." She brushes a hand against her temple, frowning. " But you felt quiet and still, like you were waiting for something. And then I thought about where we should be and here we are."

God. Apparently I left myself wide open so this vampire idiot-savant could just stroll right into my brain. Idiot. _Idiot. _I've gotten sloppy and lazy but that doesn't cover all of this. "Okay, fine. I'm kinda drunk, so that's a lucky break for you. Lowers defenses, whatever. But you shouldn't be strong enough to do this. Not on animal blood."

The sun above us flickers. The breeze picks up and whips the water into white-capped peaks. She stares out over the lake. "I never said I was on animal blood."

That catches me off guard. She hasn't lied about her dietary habits, not exactly, but she definitely didn't seem like she was all Team _Homo Sapiens _the other day when she flipped out over a cup of AB-negative. But she's right, she never came out and said she was on the human stuff, and I never actually asked her because I was trying to stay out of shit that wasn't my business for once. So, okay. Good to know. At least now I understand how she has the physical _oomph _to do this to me, but it raises a hell of a lot more questions than it answers. I'll get those answers one way or another, but this isn't the time.

I pick up a stone and plunk it into the water. It sticks on the surface like Velcro before it begins to sink. "Touché," I allow. "And now you've gotten your wish—I'm a captive audience. What now?"

"You're mad," she sighs. "And you probably should be. But I missed you. I had a lot of fun at the library. I thought you did, too."

"Yes, Elena, we managed to get along for a whopping forty-five minutes before someone said or did anything idiotic. We deserve medals," I say.

"You say that like it never happens. We get along. This summer, even Denver-"

I laugh. It sounds like breaking glass. "You aren't seriously using _Denver _as an example of when things went well for us, are you?"

"Right until I screwed things up at Scary Mary's, yeah, things were good and you know it. Why do you only remember the bad times?"

"Because there are so many more of them." I pluck a piece of grass from the bank and it crumbles to dust in my fingers. She's holding on to this dream by a thread. She may be running on high-octane blood, but I know a few tricks she doesn't. It's her dream as much as mine, after all. So I take control.

It's child's play for me to snuff out the sun and plunge us into darkness. It's so easy to make the quarry explode in a watery cyclone that swirls around us both. Then it all vanishes and we're standing in her bedroom. Jeremy's body is lying on the floor, his head twisted at an impossible angle. "Remember this one?" I taunt.

She staggers as I plunge her back into that awful night. Even now, she can't resist kneeling beside Jeremy's cooling body, stroking his dark hair. "You weren't yourself," she says. "You were upset, you didn't mean to."

"Oh, I meant to, Elena. I meant to hurt you. He was acceptable collateral damage." I nudge his hand, the one with that stupid fucking ring, with my foot. "And don't you remember what set all this off? 'It's always gonna be Stefan,'" I snit. Her face crumples in on itself and I'm terrified that she might cry and I'll lose my cruel bravado. I hate doing this. _Hate _it. But she has to see. She has to understand that I'm not who she thinks I am. I can't be what she needs.

"That's not fair, Damon," she says with the full force of her righteous indignation. "This was all a long time ago. So much has changed-"

Her own voice interrupts her. "I love him, Damon. He came into my life at a time when I needed someone, and I fell for him instantly." I will never, ever forget these words. Nothing in my whole long, painful life has hurt quite as much as this—not Stefan's betrayal, not Katherine's rejection, not that fucking werewolf bite. Nothing compares to having that last bit of hope wink out on me as I waited to die. Oh, shh, here comes the best part: "No matter what I feel for you, I never unfall from him."

Those tears which threatened to fall moments ago course down her cheeks and I have to look away. I feel a physical wrench as she wrests control of the dream back from me. The walls collapse like a house of cards and the sun pops back into existence. We're on the back patio at the Lockwood estate. She's sheathed in royal blue taffeta; I'm in Armani. Even though it's the last thing I want to do right now, we're dancing together, hands hovering inches apart as we circle each other like wary adversaries.

"Give it up, Elena. You have to see why I'm having a little trouble believing your new song and dance," I say wearily. With this new talent of hers, there is literally no rest for the wicked.

"I know. You have reasons to doubt me. Just like I have reasons to doubt you. But Damon, I forgive you for everything. All of it." I hate her forgiveness, hate how freely she gives it and how much I need it. We turn. "What I said that night was true. I love Stefan. Always will."

"This isn't proving your point, Gilbert," I grit. I try to snatch the dream again, to get out of this memory and away from this fucking indie-rock song, but she's holding it too tightly. I can't get free.

"When I chose Stefan, I thought I was choosing him for fifty years, sixty years." She breathes a soft laugh. "Probably not even that long; I am-I was- the doppelganger; I'd have been lucky to see thirty." We turn again, the palms of our hands brushing together. She feels so cold. "The point is, when all of a sudden you're talking about _forever, _things change. I started to realize I could stay with Stefan and I'd be content. But that's not enough. I want to risk everything for a chance to be really happy, to hurt more and love more. You're the only one who can give me that_." _The music swells. "It's a scary thought, and it took me a while to see that it's worth it. But now I know that what I want—forever-is you. Warts and all."

We step together and she's in my arms. "If you can forgive me, that'll be a start. But more than anything, you need to forgive yourself," she says.

One_ two three_. One_ two_ _three_. I count the steps in my head as we waltz. The dance is logical; the dance has a predictable rhythm and clearly prescribed rules. But the two of us? We're in uncharted waters. How can I still want her, still love her, in spite of all the hurt and hatred between us? How can I even let myself think that she might mean it, that maybe dying gave her a new lease on life and showed her that things could be different, more, better? I shouldn't believe a word she says, but I almost do.

What I don't believe—what doesn't make sense-is her line about forgiveness. I don't even know what she means. While I may pitifully need her forgiveness, I don't know how to go about doing it for myself, or why I would want to. "That's your thing, Elena. Not mine."

She rests her head against my shoulder and closes her eyes. "If you say so, Damon." The song plays on. We sway together. I feel the dream begin to fade, watch the color bleed from the sky and the strength bleed from her arms as it all falls apart. I don't want it to end. I want to stay here, under this wrong sun with this right girl. If only in dreams, we belong together.

I wake up in a cold, empty bed. I bury my face in my pillow and convince myself I can still smell lilies.


	5. Fear Itself

_This chapter owes thanks to so many people. Thanks to JWAB and WildYennifer for betaing various bits and pieces of this, and to afanoftvd and Jade2099 for informing this chapter with your smart, fascinating insights. I swear, it takes a damn village to write a chapter, but I'd be lost without support from all of you. If the rest of you need something good to read, each and every one of these ladies is an amazing author in her own right-go read their stuff. Seriously. But read this first._

* * *

The thing about drinking vervain is that it never gets any easier. No matter how often you drink it, no matter how much booze you mix it with, it still singes your throat and fills your belly with molten lead every damn time. But hey, it's a small price to pay to keep my thoughts my own. I slam back a double shot and chase it with blood before I even put clothes on, just in case I have some kind of narcoleptic fit that enables her to crawl back into my head.

Okay, so the dream didn't wind up being so terrible, but that still doesn't mean I like her having access to my subconscious. In dreams, I can't protect myself, can't hide away the parts of me she doesn't need to see. If she'd known where to look, she could have seen every fear, every insecurity, every secret laid bare. And since I spend most of my time pretending those things don't exist, I sure as shit don't want her bumbling through my brain and stumbling upon...whatever. So vervain it is.

I pull clothes on and drive to the library. I settle down at my usual table with a mound of back issues of the _Mystic Falls Courier. _Yep, I can't wait for a whole day of reading early nineteenth-century newspapers. It's the usual small town stuff—a story on the price of cotton, a helpful calendar noting the phases of the moon, ads for eye of newt. Well, it's usual if your small town is Mystic Falls. As crazy as some of this stuff is, I can't concentrate. My thoughts keep drifting back to the dream, to Elena's heartfelt speech about how she wants me to hurt her and love her, but not until I forgive myself. Or something. I can't say I really followed all of it, but it sure _sounded _good. And there in the dreamworld, I have to admit it felt pretty good, too.

My eyes drift from the smudgy newspapers to the door. It's Saturday, so she could drop by any time. You know, if she happened to be in the neighborhood. Not that I _want _her to, but it might make a nice break from all this ye-olde bullshit. I'm sure she's going to march in here any minute now with some new plan to convince me that we're soul mates. Not that I'll ever believe her, but there's a certain train wreck fascination in watching her try. Or hell, maybe she'll at least apologize for staging an invasion of my brain. I _know _she feels guilty about it; she feels guilty for not saying "bless you" after someone sneezes.

She's going to walk through that door any minute now. _Any _minute now.

Hours drip by. She doesn't come. Which, great. Fantastic. This is what I wanted, right? I've pushed her away time and again, and maybe she finally got the message. Or maybe she _did _see something inside my head, some truth that convinced her I'll always be the bad brother. Or maybe our little stroll down memory lane sent her careening back into Stefan's arms. That's where she belongs, after all. Stefan won't hurt her or push her or demand things of her; he'll just love her, like she deserves.

Where does all that leave me? Here. Alone. Like I wanted. Perfect. Peachy. I'm walking on goddamn sunshine.

The room is suddenly small and airless. I repress the urge to chuck the documents into their archival box and bolt, but instead take the time to do it right and pack them away with care before dropping them off with Mrs. King and getting the hell out of here. I need air and sunlight; I need booze and someone to nibble on. Anything to get my mind off meaningless dreams.

I slip into the car, prepared to crank the radio, gun the engine, and scream down the road in search of a bite when I see it in the passenger's seat. That Tupperware container, scrubbed clean of its pie residue, has been riding in my car for days. I really should take it back to her. I drum on the steering wheel. I have to take it back. It'd be rude not to. She's probably not even at home.

But of course, when I pull up to her house, her car's in the driveway. Fuck. I should just drop it on her doorstep and burn rubber out of here. But I don't, because I'm the world's biggest glutton for punishment. And maybe I want to see her. Just a little. But only to yell at her about the dream. That's it, no deeper motives here, no sir.

Out of habit, I circle to the back of the house and leap into the big oak just outside her window. I know she _has _a door, but what fun is that? Clinging to a thick branch, I reach out and push the window open. I've got one leg hooked over the sill before I see her.

It's one thing to be _told _that Elena's drinking human blood; it's quite another thing to see her kneeling on her bed practically fellating a blood bag. Her head's thrown back to the ceiling, eyes closed. A lacy filigree of veins curls around her cheeks, and I can just see the flash of her fangs around the bag's tubing. She's making this little moan in the back of her throat, this primal sound I never thought I'd hear out of her. It is, without a doubt, the sexiest thing I have _ever _seen. She's wild and wanting and perfect.

I need to leave. I shouldn't be watching this. It's too private, too intimate. But I can't tear my eyes away. I've never seen Elena so unguarded, so _free_. I want to see more, want to see what she looks like with her fangs buried in a warm neck, a soft thigh. God, her cheeks are flushed with that stolen blood. If I touched her now, she'd be so warm-

I must make some kind of noise (possibly my dick exploding from sheer animal lust) because she suddenly breaks out of her private world and looks at me with a gasp. I get a brief glimpse of her eyes—wide pupils nearly swallowed by rich, dark blood—before she hangs her head, long hair falling in front of her face. She clutches the now-empty bag to her chest.

"You-I-," she stutters, her voice a thick rasp.

Oh, I don't like this. Why is she acting so embarrassed? I mean, sure, she was getting a little into it, but feeding feels _good_, especially in those early days when you miss being alive more than anything. For a few minutes at a time, blood reminds us of what it means to live again. As we forget what it feels like to have a strong heartbeat, to need to breathe, that euphoria fades, but in those first few decades? There's nothing like it. And anyway, none of it's anything to be ashamed of, even if I do feel a little like a peeping Tom since I'm still straddling her window sill, watching her do something she obviously considers to be private.

I force a light smile as I step into the room. "Blood Sucking 101: It's much more civilized if you drink it from a glass." I hop down from the window seat. "Trust me, you'll feel one hundred percent classier." She gives a stuttering little laugh but doesn't speak. "Didn't mean to interrupt dinner. Was bringing this back." I hold up the stupid fucking Tupperware and then lay it on the edge of her desk.

She still won't look at me, isn't flashing me an easy smile like I expected her to. In fact, she's _hiding _from me, using her long hair as a curtain to shield herself from my view. I don't like this even a little bit. I assumed that because she was on human blood, she was at least coping with what she is, even if she isn't ready to march in the vampire pride parade yet. But why is she feeding up here all alone in her room, skulking around like she's doing something wrong? It's just like...Fuck. It's just like Stefan.

No. Not her. If he did this to her, made her self-loathing and twisted and wrong, I will kick his ass for the next hundred years, I swear to God. All previous threats of an eternity of misery will look like a fucking cake walk compared to what I will do to him if he's broken her.

I'm furious, but at the same time, this is none of my business. She picked her vampire teachers and they weren't me. If this is the way she is, it's because it's how she _wanted _to be, right? I need to go, get out of here and spend another night in another bar with another person who won't remember me in the morning. I should leave her to this, to the life she wants. Do the right thing for once, Damon.

Of course, I don't do the right thing. Instead, I sit next to her on the edge of the bed. I can't walk away. Not from her, not if I don't know if she's going to be all right. I need her to be all right. "You okay?"

"Yeah. You just surprised me." She has the faintest hint of a lisp, hasn't gotten used to talking around the fangs yet. They're a bitch at first—it's hard to be taken seriously as a creature of the night when you have a fucking speech impediment. "I just don't like people watching me...eat."

"Why?"

"Why? Because of this, Damon." She finally looks up at me, still all veins and fangs and beautiful bloody eyes. "Because they look at me like I'm a monster, like I'm not _me _anymore. Even Stefan did."

"Then they're fucking idiots. Especially Stefan," I say hotly. I try to tamp down that anger, soothe myself by vowing that Stefan, a two-by-four, and I will spend some quality time together later. Right now, anger isn't what she needs. "He of all people should know that you're more _you _now than you ever were."

"But I'm not. I want to hurt people. I tried so hard to stay away from human blood. Stefan didn't want me to do the animal thing, you know. Said it was important for me to be strong." No, I didn't know that. All right, maybe I'll skip the two-by-four. Bare knuckles only. "But I tried and I failed. I needed the blood. But even this isn't enough. Just being around Jeremy is hard, but being in public or at school is almost impossible." The blood bag flutters from her hands. "I want to kill them. I want to drink them all dry, and I know it still won't be enough. It won't ever be enough," she says in the barest whisper.

There was a time when I wanted her to be a vampire. First out of spite, then out of love, I wanted her to stay with me—with us—forever. But now, I would give every day of my forever to make her the way she was, human and innocent. At the same time, I want to take her by the hand and lead her from this room, take her on the hunt, let that animal loose and show her how to take _just enough_, how to extract every last ounce of fear and blood from her prey until it quivers on the precipice of death...and pull back in the ultimate act of benevolence. But of course, I can't do either of these things. Can't go forward, can't go back. I can only try to pick up the pieces and help her be whoever the hell she wants to be now.

"But you don't give in, Elena. You don't kill people. Right?" She nods a confirmation. I'm relieved. Not that I have any moral qualms about killing, but it'd bug her. "That shows you're still the same self-righteous, self-sacrificing fluffy bunny you were before." That surprises a smile out of her. The veins start to fade from her cheeks. "You love everyone enough to fight for them, even those poor schlubs you don't even know. And that means you're still the same. You're still Elena Gilbert. It's just Elena Gilbert 2.0," I say. The last drops of blood flee from her eyes, and she looks achingly human. I can't decide which version of her I love more. I guess it doesn't matter.

"Does it ever get easier?" she asks. "The cravings, the hunger, the feelings?"

I consider. It took me twenty years to get a handle on things, to learn how much blood I needed, to learn when to stop, to learn to eat without getting blood all over my face and clothes. Granted, things were tougher in those days; blood bags weren't an option and I didn't have a teacher. Even once I figured out how I was going to survive, I had my little snafus and issues, like my bender when I first came to Mystic Falls. It's never been easy, but it has gotten better.

"If you let it. It'll get easier if you let it," I say.

"I hope you're right. And I'm glad you came." She smiles that million megawatt smile and _God _I'm whipped because all I want to do is figure out a way to make sure that smile never leaves her face. But then I remember I'm also the guy who wants to show her how to separate weak prey from the herd, how to stalk and hunt and walk the line between life and death. And I remember she's the girl who pushed me away, time and again, toyed with me, kissed me, and then ran away. I can't forget any of those things.

I pick up the fallen blood bag and stand. Time to make a graceful exit. I ball up the bag and shoot it into the trash can. Three points. "Yeah, well. Thanks for the pie." I gesture to the container that was my flimsy pretext for being here in the first place.

"Was it good?" she asks.

"I ate all of it," I say.

She beams. She just fucking beams. "Oh, good. I was so nervous about that; I'm an _awful _cook." No shit. "I still have a few slices downstairs, if you want-"

"Couldn't eat another bite," I say. "Big lunch." Even I have limits.

"Oh, okay." We're both quiet and it should feel awkward but it doesn't. For once, I don't feel the need to fill the room with hot air, expand and expand with jokes and bluffs until there's no room for anything else. Even though there's so much to say, I'm okay with our silence-not touching, not speaking, just being. Then, of course, she blows it by opening her mouth.

"About the dream, Damon-"

Right. The dream. I'm very mad about the dream, I remind myself. I give in to the anger; it's an easy, familiar emotion. Whatever passed between us in the silence, that's what I can't deal with. "Yeah. _About _that. My head's off limits, Elena. You won't be able to pull that stunt again," I say.

"Maybe I was wrong in how I went about doing it, but everything I said there—everything that happened there—was true. I know we've both hurt each other, but we can get past all that if you can only get out of your own way and be happy," she says with her earnest puppy dog eyes and I just lose it.

"Could you stop talking like a fucking fortune cookie? Please? I mean, Jesus Christ, five minutes ago you were angsting because in exchange for being beautiful and young _forever, _you have to deal with some weird dietary restrictions. And now you're telling me how to fix _my_ shit? Physician, heal thy goddamn self," I spit. How can she stand there and act like she's got it all figured out when I know she's just as broken as I am?

While I'm busy fuming, Elena slams me against the wall, framed pictures shattering to the ground behind me. She's got a forearm pressed against my chest, pinning me to the wall. I could get free if I really wanted to, but I'd probably break her arm in the process and as pissed as I am, I still can't stand to see her hurt. "You need to be quiet and listen to me," she says, full of fire and steel, and who the fuck is this girl who thinks she can throw me around and talk to me like this? "I didn't say I had all the answers, Damon. And I'm not asking you to fix yourself alone. I would help you if you'd let me. But you insist on carrying all this hurt by yourself when it would be so much easier if we carried it together." The fire in her eyes dwindles and her voice is unbearably soft and kind. "What are you so afraid of?"

"Oh, _fuck _no," I snarl. "You're the one who chose safety, Elena. Even with everything you felt, you still ran back to him because he was the devil you knew. You took the fucking easy way out, so you don't get to talk to me about _fear."_

Tears shine in her eyes and I know I've made my point. She relaxes her grip enough for me to push away. I storm to the window. "I made a mistake. I'm only human." She laughs, a miserable sound. "Or I was then. And if I have to, I'll spend forever trying to make up for what I said that night. But Damon, tell me—if you let me love you, what's the _worst _that could happen?"

"You could leave!" Oh. Fuck. I didn't want to do that, but her childish faith that love can fix everything, that love will redeem my battered soul and make me a good man is all too much and the words escaped and it's too late to take them back now. I turn to the window, unable to look at her and see the pity I know is in her eyes. Fine. I'll tell her. Maybe now she'll understand the impossibility of _us. _"Are you happy, Elena? You found the answer. I know no matter how hard you try to love me, you'll leave eventually, like everyone always does. And I'll be all alone, still in love with a memory."

"But you're all alone now," she says with a gentleness so intense it hurts. "But you don't have to be."

I watch as the last rays of sunlight fade from the horizon and night settles in. I don't look back at her. I know if I do, it's all over. I'll let her give me what she's offering, and having just a taste of her love will make her inevitable decision to walk away—whether that's a week from now or a thousand years from now— hurt even more.

I hurl myself from the window. I hear her calling my name but I can't look back. I slam into the car and peel off, my knuckles white as I grip the steering wheel. I don't know where I'm going except away.

Somehow I wind up at the Grill. It's where I always seem to end up, at the bar with a bottle and some sad country song playing on the jukebox for company. Someone sits on the stool beside me but fuck them; no one else matters right now. All that matters is how much is left in this bottle and how quickly it can make me forget Elena's promises and my own fear. Because she's right. I'm fucking terrified of being with her. I can say I want to stay away for her own good all I want, but when push comes to shove, she's a million times more dangerous to me than I'll ever be to her.

I pour another shot and slam the bottle down. The person beside me picks it up and I turn toward the bastard, aching for a fight, anything that will shake the fear away and remind me who I really am. But I check my blow when I see long blond hair and sad blue eyes.

"Hullo, Damon," Rebekah drawls. "Miss me?"


	6. Inside Out

I laugh. What else can I do? Life is _hilarious_. It's also kinda awful, but damn, is it ever funny. I glance over my shoulder, half convinced I'll see Katherine oozing through the door, just to make my night complete, but no. In fact, the whole restaurant is strangely empty for a Saturday night. Entirely empty, come to think of it. When I turn back around, even the bartender is gone. It's just the two of us.

Swell.

"Rebekah. Don't you have lives to ruin and dances to plan?" I ask as I toss back my shot.

"But you're such charming company," she says sweetly. Too sweetly.

"Very true, but surely you have _something _better to do than spend the evening with a guy who hates your fucking guts." I lean over the bar, pilfering a bottle of Jack. This conversation is going to require a lot more alcohol.

"Everyone hates my guts," she says with a shrug. There's not an ounce of self-pity in her voice; it's just a simple acknowledgment of a universally accepted truth. I'm not going to argue with her.

"Just surprised you came back to town at all," I say as I pour another shot. Yeah, yeah. I shouldn't be sitting here talking to her, I should take a swing at her to defend Elena's honor. It's a great idea in theory, until you remember the whole part about how she can't actually die but she can sure kill my sorry ass. For now, I intend to confine myself to verbal abuse only. We'll escalate to physical if and when the situation calls for it. Or until I get extra drunk and stupid. Whichever happens first.

Rebekah pulls the pour spout from the bottle of whiskey and takes a long swig. "This was my home long before it was yours. I won't let you drive me away, especially since I'm now effectively invulnerable. But you're welcome to leave if my presence makes you uncomfortable."

I wag my finger at her. "There's a world of difference between _immortal, _which you are, and _invulnerable_, which you're not. Just ask your desiccated brother. Oh, wait. Turns out he wasn't immortal, either." I raise my glass in a mock toast to dearly departed Klaus. Asshole.

She slaps me, but her heart's not in it. If it had been, my jaw would be broken. But it just stings. I'm not even mad about it; deserved that one. I rub the tender spot. "You're the one who sat next to me, Bex. Did you really think I'd welcome you back with open arms—or legs—after what you did?"

"Please. As if I have any interest in bedding you again," she sniffs.

"You couldn't jump my bones fast enough last time, even with Sage listening in. Of course, can't really blame you—_how_ many times did I make you come that first night?" I ask with a leer.

"About as many times as I made you come, if memory serves," she volleys back. I grin a little. She's right. Hey, I'll be the first to admit that the sex was pretty fantastic. You really can't beat vampire-on-vampire sex when it comes to stamina and intensity, and the girl has learned a trick or two over the years. All that being said, she's still a pathetic, stone-cold bitch, which normally wouldn't be a deal breaker until you add in the whole killing Elena thing. No, even as lonely and confused and horny as I am right now, hate sex is not the answer. For once.

"If you don't want me to fuck your brains out, what do you want?" I ask.

Rebekah toys with the bottle, shredding the corners of the label. "How is she?"

Oh. So she's heard. I wonder who told her. Or hell, maybe she saw Caroline and Elena holding up a blood bank like a fangier Thelma and Louise. "Like you care," I say tiredly.

"I'm terribly curious about her. Surprised she transitioned at all, to be honest. I thought Little Miss Perfect couldn't bear to see _anyone _suffer," Rebekah says, all feigned innocence and wide eyes.

The shot glass shatters in my hand. Huh. Didn't realize I was holding it quite so tightly. I shake the bits of glass away and begin wiping up the mess with a cocktail napkin. "You got what you wanted. She's dead. You're safe. Mazel tov. Now leave her alone."

She laughs. "It's really quite charming how territorial you are with a girl who obviously doesn't want you."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I say. What the fuck, do I fucking have Tourette's or something? Maybe I'm so goddamn desperate for someone to talk to, my brain is finding opportunities. Christ, I need a shrink.

Rebekah arches a brow."Oh? Don't tell me Elena has switched teams? Did death show her she needs a bit more monster in her man?"

"Something like that," I admit. "But it's none of your business. Elena's just a run-of-the-mill baby vampire now; no doppelganger hijinks, no crazy witch magic. She's not a threat to you. So leave her—all of us, preferably—alone."

Rebekah takes a long, thoughtful pull from her bottle and ignores everything I've just said. "How very fascinating. And quite funny. I know you're awfully upset about the bridge incident, but now it seems I rather did all three of you a favor."

I stare at her. Obviously losing her favorite brother has lead to some deep psychotic break, because this chick isn't even approaching sense anymore. "Come again?"

"Oh, yes. You'll see—this will be grand for all three of you," she says, and she sounds so fucking smug, you'd think she'd planned for Elena to come back. But no, the whole stupid thing was just a comedy of errors. She has her fair share of blame for standing on that bridge in the first place, but let's not forget that Matt could have mowed her down (she's a fucking vampire and that truck was a fucking tank; they'd both have been fine), Stefan could have had a little less "respect" for Elena's death wish, and Elena herself could have been driving the other direction. Toward me. But none of those things happened, so they don't matter. Any of them. "Now you and Stefan both get to have your little girlfriend forever, continuing the sad cycle of feuding brothers and conflicted doppelganger for all eternity. And won't that be fun?"

Oh, fuck this bitch.

I give Rebekah my most charming smile. "The only thing sadder than a love triangle between brothers is when they both fuck the same girl and don't even care enough to fight over her," I say pleasantly. I pause for effect. "I mean, hell, Stefan didn't even _remember _it, so you can see what an impression you made on him. And as for me, well, there's nothing like a pity fuck to make me feel better about my own life."

I'm rewarded with a brief grimace of pain that twists across Rebekah's face, but it's a short-lived victory. Before I can really savor it, the stool is kicked out from under me and I'm laying on the floor with Rebekah's foot on my chest. It's not easy to do my patented eye thing under these circumstances, but I manage pretty well, if I do say so myself. "If you wanted to be on top this time, all you had to do was ask—but let's do reverse, so I don't have to look at you."

I hear a loud _crack _and suddenly the leg of a bar stool is buried in my gut, driven in so deeply I hear the wood hit the floor boards beneath me. I yell at the initial flash of pain, but it's gone in an instant and _shit_ she hit my spine. I can't feel anything below my belly button-can't fight, can't run. All I can do is flop around like a fish.

Rebekah pulls the splintery leg out of my stomach. It makes a sucking sound, like pulling your foot out of a mud puddle. I know it should hurt, but it doesn't, and that's the worst part. "Oh, Damon. I didn't come here intending to kill you, but I'm adaptable," she says. She rears back with that stool leg again and I close my eyes. I'm not afraid, I just don't want to watch death rushing at me; would rather think about Stefan and Elena and how I hope they'll be happy, how maybe it's better with me out of the picture. I hope-

A crazy hellcat scream startles me out of my swansong, and when I open my eyes, I'm pretty sure I'm dead, because there's no way Elena is actually clinging to Rebekah's back like a deranged spider monkey. She's got one hand wrapped in Rebekah's long blond hair, preventing the Original from shaking her free; the other hand is clawing at Rebekah's face, tearing long trenches in the flesh. They're both screaming and Rebekah's thrashing wildly, trying to whip around so she can whack Elena with that makeshift stake she's got. It's surreal and terrifying because Rebekah is going to kill Elena, and there's no do-over this time. I can only watch.

Rebekah drops the stake and _that_'_s _a relief, but only for a second. With both her hands free, she grabs Elena by the shoulders and flips the smaller girl over her head, smashing her onto the ground beside me. Elena's skull hits the ground sharply. She lays there, stunned and dazed. I still can't move; we're both going to die.

"Now what am I going to do with you?" Rebekah stoops to reclaim the fallen stake. "So many options. I could kill both of you, of course, but then I have no one left to torment." She sighs dramatically. I can still move my arms, so I fumble for something, anything to use as a weapon, but she stomps on my fingers. Bones snap. I scream.

"Pay attention, please," she says briskly. She continues: "I could kill _you_-" she places the tip of the stool leg against Elena's chest. I thrash furiously, but my legs still don't work and there's nothing I can do to stop this. Rebekah laughs. "How sweet. It would be _delicious _for you to watch her die—again-knowing you couldn't save her. Then, of course, the ensuing centuries of self-loathing would be delightful. But, I tried to kill her once and it didn't take." Elena's hands push feebly at the stake, but Rebekah ignores her; without the element of surprise on her side, Elena's no threat at all.

"Your beef is with me, Rebekah. I'm the one who fucked you and threw you away. You want to kill _me_," I gasp. "Just get it over with."

Obligingly, Rebekah shifts the stake so it rests above my own heart. "True. You played with me and used me. And it would be equally amusing to watch her deal with the guilt of _your_ death." Her eyes light up. "But perhaps the best revenge of all would be to leave you two alone." She kneels beside Elena. "Did you decide you love him, dearest? Did you decide he's the one who makes your dead heart sing? How funny you could only love him when you became a monster."

"Go to hell," Elena grits. She looks at me, big brown eyes swimming with tears of pain and fear and something else. "Damon, that's not how it is, that's not what I meant-"

"Not the time," I say sharply. Her talking usually makes things worse. She needs to shut up so I can figure out a way to get us out of this.

Rebekah laughs again and I swear, the minute I can walk, I'm tearing her tongue out so she can't do that annoying giggle ever again. She turns to me."Touching. Truly touching. Do you see what I mean? The best revenge I can have—on both of you—is to leave you two to your own devices. Because sooner or later, you'll tear each other apart from the inside out. And that will be the sweetest victory of all." She bends down and kisses me, tongue forcing past my teeth, teasing and taunting.

I bite her. Her blood fills my mouth; it tastes like lightning. She screams and pulls away and the stake rams home again and oh yeah, I feel it this time. Hear it, too, the whistling sound that tells me she hit a lung. I hear her spit blood, hear her retreating footsteps, hear the slamming door. Then I don't hear much of anything as I take a little vacation away from the pain.

Next thing I know, Elena's got an arm around me and is half carrying, half dragging me. I try to get my feet under me, but my legs are still dead weight and the pain in my chest is taking most of my attention. I can't help much, don't even have my shit together enough to speak. So I watch Elena through heavy eyes, blackness dancing around the edge of my vision. She's struggling like a champ to drag my carcass out of here, even though I've spent the past week telling her I don't want her, don't need her, can't make her happy.

"You okay?" I ask. It sounds like air leaking out of a balloon. Feels that way, too.

"Yeah. Fine. More than I can say for you." She shifts her grip on my shoulders. "You're _heavy. _And too tall for me to carry."

I wrap my arm around her, manage to get a little leverage so I can take some of my weight on my upper body. "First time I've been too tall for anything," I manage. My mouth still tastes like Rebekah. "Why are you here?"

"The same reason I'm always here these days," she says, sounding as tired as I feel. "Came after you to convince you you're worth it, that I won't leave, that I lo-"

"Got it." Still can't stand to hear those words. People don't say those words to me. Oh, people sure _care _about me a lot, but they don't love me. If she ever gets those words out, I might believe her, and then...Well, it's not gonna happen. "Shouldn't have come; coulda gotten yourself killed."

"I've gotten myself killed twice now," she says. "Didn't take."

I laugh and I shouldn't because _ow_. I cough and blood spatters my lips.

"Stop that," she scolds. "Just let me take care of you."

Yeah, because I love the idea that she had to save my ass from my hate-sex buddy and now has to drag my broken body out of this bar. I shut up, though. Not because she told me too, but because there's nothing to say. When we get to the parking lot, she props me against the hood of my car. Her own ride is nowhere in sight; must have run here. I remember that day we spent together after we turned, how the speed and the rush of vampire speed delighted her, shook her out of her funk.

"Keys?" she asks, shaking me out of my own funk.

I start to make a move for them, but quickly realize my fingers aren't working right now, stiff and useless as wood. God, I hate this helpless feeling. I hate that she has to see me this way. "Left pocket," I mumble.

She squints at me for a minute and then gives a determined nod and dives in, sliding her hand into my front pocket. She's about two inches from my dick and I can't even feel it. Figures. But hey, I could've had that. I'm the moron who turned the almost-naked girl out of my bed by telling her I could have fucked her evil twin, remember?

Keys procured, Elena folds me into the passenger's seat—it hurts—and slides behind the wheel. I'm ready to let go, lapse back into unconsciousness until I'm back to normal, but a horrible thought occurs to me. "Have you ever driven a stick shift?"

"Of course I have; Dad taught me," she says. I nod and relax against the seat. Remind me to have a drink in honor of old Grayson Gilbert.

It turns out he only _kind _of taught her; there are enough grinding gears to make me wince all the way to the loft. But I'm distracted from the damage to my poor car when my spine snaps back into place. My pain doubles as sensation returns to the lower half of my body, including that sucking gut wound. I dig my fingers into the leather seat and try not to whimper like a little girl, but I'm not very successful.

"Almost there, we're almost there," Elena says. She reaches over and grasps my knee. Though the sensation is like a drop in the ocean against the screaming pain farther north, I feel it. And it helps ground me, a little. Enough to nod and grit my teeth and make it the last few miles to the loft.

I'm able to walk a little, leaning on her heavily all the while. Together, we stumble up the stairs (why did Ric have to live in a walk up? What the fuck is wrong with elevators?) and into the apartment. She lays me on the bed and I try not to moan like a stuck pig while she makes for the fridge. It feels like hours later, but it's only a few minutes until she returns with a thick, mouthwatering stack of blood bags and one of my cut-crystal tumblers. She opens the first bag like a pro and pours a full glass. "Classier this way, right?" she asks with a tight smile, and even though all I want to do is tear the bags from her hands and binge on one after the other after the other, I still smile back in spite of myself. Damn her.

She slips into the bed behind me, propping my upper body against her chest and I'm not really in any position to argue with her right now. She holds the glass to my lips and helps me drink. I want to guzzle, but she won't let me, pours the blood down nice and slow. I let her help me, let her cradle my head and fill glass after glass. I close my eyes and drink. Things shift inside me, pieces fitting back together, muscle and skin mending. Finally, I'm whole again. Exhausted, weak, through the ringer, but okay. "Thanks," I murmur sleepily. I know I should push myself away from her, but I'm so tired and she feels so good. What's the harm in being weak, just this once?

"For what? All I did was hit my head and lay around a lot," she says with a sigh.

"Are you kidding me? You got into a hair-pulling cat fight with Rebekah. It was _fantastic._" I smile at the memory. Sure, it was terrifying at the time, but she was so brave and ferocious. A little stupid, but that's my girl.

She smiles sheepishly, almost embarrassed at her heroics. "Didn't know what else to do. At least it distracted her."

"You did great," I say. I mean it.

"What were you doing with her, anyway?"

"Witty banter, mostly. Followed by attempted murder."

"Cute. But seriously. Were you two...?" I crack one eye open and crane my head around to look at her. There's an expression on her face I don't quite understand at first. Then it dawns on me.

"Are you asking me if I was going to fuck Rebekah? You walked in on her about to _kill _me," I say incredulously.

Her cheeks flush pink. "But she still kissed you. And the last time you were this mad at me, you slept with her."

Girl's got a point. Not that I was with Elena then. Hell, not that I'm with her now. I don't owe her an explanation. But still, she _did _just save my life. More or less. "I don't want anything to do with Rebekah," I say. "She came up to me. We talked. We fought. That's all." I'm a soft touch after a spinal injury, what can I say?

"Oh. Good." She gives this firm little nod, like she just won some argument with herself. "That's good." We sit there for a while in that quiet, comfortable silence. I drift in a twilight, not sleeping, not awake. I count her heartbeats. They're a little faster than mine, a low, gentle murmur.

"About what Rebekah said-" Elena starts, her halting voice threatening to drag me out of my pleasant doze.

I moan a little. "No. Don't. Just don't start with that. It's _Rebekah._" She's possibly the only person in the world less qualified to offer relationship advice than I am.

Elena stirs. "Sorry," she says. "I should go. You need to sleep." She eases out from under me and starts to slide off the bed.

I should let her go. After all, nothing has changed in the hour since I stormed out of her house. Nothing. Just because she saved my life doesn't mean she won't run away when she really gets to know me, sees who I am. But I'm tired and sore and weak and that little flash of jealousy I saw in her eyes when she asked me about Rebekah is making me do stupid things. Like grab her hand.

She turns to me, lips parted in surprise, eyes a question. "Don't go," I say. "Please." It's wrong of me to ask her to stay. I'll hate myself in the morning, but tonight, I need her quiet, steady heartbeat. I just need her.

Her eyes light up and I know I've made a mistake. She's so happy to stay. But I can't take it back now, and I don't really want to. "Of course," she says. "If you want me to, of course." She lays down beside me. We don't touch, but she's there in the darkness, and that's more than enough.

* * *

She's gone when I wake up. Long shadows tell me I've slept most of the day away. I try to tell myself I'm glad she's gone, but it's a lie. I wish she was still here, but it's better this way. She probably came to the same realization that I have: Rebekah was right. Klaus was, too. I'm the worst thing in the world for Elena. And she's the worst thing for me. We'll use each other and take and take until there's nothing left of either of us but resentment and emptiness. Letting her stay last night was a pitiful act of blood loss-induced weakness, but in the light of day, we're as impossible as we ever were.

I start to sit up, ready to go shower away my blood and her smell when I see the letter laying the pillow. It's just a sheet of legal paper torn from one of my notebooks, folded in half. Probably her excuse, her reason for running away when she realized what it's like to wake up next to me. I should just throw it away.

I pick it up. Her handwriting is all loops and whorls; I'm surprised there aren't hearts above the i's.

"_Dear Damon_," it reads. _"I'm sorry I'm not here. I thought about waking you, but I figured you needed to sleep, and I promised Jeremy I'd spend the afternoon with him. Things have still been weird between us, and he's important to me."_ It's a good excuse. Can't fault that. But why is there still so much writing on the page? I keep reading. _"In a way, I'm glad I had to leave. It might be better to explain what I'm feeling this way. Whenever I try to say the things I need to say, it doesn't come out right or you cut me off or it all gets messed up. I know you don't owe me anything, but I'm asking you to read all of this. Then you can tear this letter up, burn it, whatever. Just hear me out first." _

I stop. Do I really want to do this? No. I'm not sure what's in this big, emotional letter of hers, but I'm pretty damn sure I don't want to hear it.

I read it anyway, like she knew I would. "_I know you've been hurt. I know I've done a lot of the hurting, and I'm _so _sorry for that._" I snort. "_It took me a long time to accept how I felt about you—not because I didn't feel things, but because I felt them too much. It's like you said that first night we met, that night I couldn't remember: my feelings for you consumed me. They hurt and were too much, so I pretended I didn't have them. I pretended to be happy when I went back to Stefan, all the while looking over my shoulder at you. I knew I needed you, but I wasn't ready to accept just how deeply those feelings went. I was scared and I was selfish, and I hope you can forgive me." _Classic fucking Elena. Is that what this is about, asking forgiveness for jerking me around? Or is this all just another "maybe your love is the problem" kinda thing? Because we've covered that ground. I get it—I feel too much or too little with no middle ground. Do we really need to go over this all again?

"_I wasn't ready to accept what I felt then, but I am now. You think I don't know the real you, that I've got some idealized vision in my head. That's crap, Damon." "Crap"_ is underlined about fifty times. _"I know you aren't perfect by a long shot. I know you're a dick, I know you have a terrible temper, I know you've slept with almost every girl in Mystic Falls." _Gee, that Elena Gilbert is a real charmer. "_I know all that, and I want you anyway. I want you because I know you love all of me—the parts that want to hurt people and drink blood, the parts of me that I don't even like. I know you love me even when I don't deserve it. _

"_I want you because you make me laugh, because you're the only person who could make me smile when I thought the world had ended. I want you because you're brave and selfless, because you do what you think is right even when everyone thinks you're wrong. I want you because you're the kind of man who will sacrifice his happiness for his brother's, the kind of man who will give a beautiful dream to a dying woman and never tell a soul, the kind of man who will stay with the girl who said she didn't want him, just because she needs him."_

I can't read any more of these beautiful, wonderful lies. It's too much. My hands are shaking as I fold the letter and set it down. I'll finish this—I have to finish it—but I need a break. I need a shower and a change of clothes and possibly a drink. Then I can finish this letter, devour the words over and over again, and pretend for a minute or two that they might be true. Then I'll light this letter on fire and pretend none of this ever happened.

I turn the water on and step into Ric's shower-slash-tub, missing my own bathroom for the umpteenth time. But the water's hot and eases my sore muscles and washes the bloody residue away. I try to lose myself in the pounding water, but of course I keep thinking about the letter. I know the shoe is going to drop in the last paragraph. There's going to be a giant, honking "BUT." "I want you, _but_ it'll always be Stefan," maybe, or "I care about you, _but_ I have to let you go." I'm ready to hear those words. They can't hurt me anymore, I tell myself. They can't hurt me anymore.

I towel off, tug on a t-shirt and jeans, and fix myself a glass of blood. I don't want to finish the letter, but I can't stay away. I sit on the bed, watching the paper like it's some kind of animal that might jump up and latch onto my face any minute now. It lays there innocently. I steel myself and pick it up.

"_I want you because you're _you_, Damon. I can't promise I will never leave; none of us can promise that. You know that better than anyone." _I wince. "_But I can promise that as long as we're together, I will do everything I can to make you happy. I think we really could be happy together, if we both try. And I _want _to try._ _I hope you'll believe me; I hope you'll believe you deserve to be happy. Because you do." _

There's still one paragraph left to read. Just one. This is it, this is the moment where she pulls the rug out from under me. I brace myself for the _gotcha _moment, for her to reverse all the things she's just said. I read:

"_Even if you won't let me say it out loud, I have to tell you this. I just need to say it once, and you just need to hear it. I love you, Damon. I hope that's enough, because it's all I have. I love you. And when you're ready for me, I'll be waiting for you. _

_Love,_

_Elena."_

No matter how many times I read the words, they don't change. Elena loves me.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?


	7. This Girl

_Well, kiddos, here we are, another beginning and another ending. This has been an absolute joy to write, in no small part because of your reviews and alerts and messages. Truly, thank you. And of course, this story would not be what it is without an amazing support group. This chapter, betaing thanks go to both JWAB and Elvishgrrl, but all of my other regular correspondents own a piece of this story-WildYennifer and onerepublicgirl and afanoftvd and all the rest of you. You make me better, all of you. Thank you._

_Hit those author alerts, I've got a couple stories left in me you might want to read. But in the meantime, let's see if Damon finally lets himself be caught._

* * *

My skin is unraveling; I'm coming apart at the seams. I have everything I want right in the palm of my hand, and I can't deal with any of it.

Fuck me, so this is the thing that finally does it, that drives me over the edge. I've survived war, death, sibling rivalry, Katherine fucking Pierce, disco, and more torture than you can shake a stick at, and it's going to be a _letter _that tears me apart. A letter full of true lies and false truths. A letter that says she loves me.

I can't stop reading it. I swear I've got it memorized—every word, every place where her pen stuttered, even the dry feel of the paper and the softest whiff of lilies, I know it all by heart. And I know it's true but it _can't _be.

Is this Rebekah again—is this another dream from her, another way to make me suffer? It can't be; I lost a lot of blood last night, but not enough to bleed out all the vervain. No, this letter is real, and it's from Elena. And Elena is the world's worst liar and had no _reason _to lie anyway. Which means, ipso facto, it's true. She loves me.

My brain's like a hamster on its little wheel at the thought. She loves me. Loves me. Me.

Somehow, I'm at her house, letter crushed in my hand, though I don't remember getting here. I shouldn't be here, but I can't just pretend this didn't happen. I can't erase the words from my memory—they just repeat in my head: "_I love you, Damon_," she said. Does she have any concept of what those words mean? What they mean to _me? _Does she know how long I've waited to have her say those words, how those words scare me shitless?

Her car's not here. Goddammit, Elena, you don't write a man a letter like that and then go off the fucking grid. She's probably with Jeremy, rescuing kittens from trees or something. I don't even know what the fuck she'd do with him right now when she's still stifling an urge to _eat _him, but it doesn't matter because she's not here and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

I know what to do. I have to wait for her. When she comes back, I'll take her in my arms and tell her that of course I love her, too, that maybe we can be happy together and God fuck it, let's _try. _I should kiss her hard and let her tell me those words again and again.

I know what to do. I have to get in my car and put my foot to the floor and _go_. Away from her, away from this girl who doesn't know what those words mean, doesn't know what she's in for. Because even if she does love me (God, I want her to), that's still a damn sight different from _being _with someone. Love isn't enough; never has been. To be with her would take compromise and struggle and other self-help bullshit. Or so I'm told-it's not like I've actually ever had a relationship; I had an obsession and a lot of fuck buddies. But with her, it has to be different.

I'm pacing in her driveway like a crazy person. Someone will probably call the fucking cops on me and wouldn't that be hilarious? I circle to the back of the house and a second later I'm in her room. I remind myself to buy a lock for her window; I remind myself she's a vampire now and can protect herself.

I'm surrounded by her things, her smell, but not _her. _Good, easing myself into this. It's good to be here, helps me stitch myself back together and get back under control. Better. Okay. I just need a moment to think, figure out my next move.

I wander the room, looking at the pleasant clutter of her life. Cheerleading trophies and a putridly pink jewelry box crowd her bureau. Photos of smiling girls and a happy family are tucked around her mirror. There's that ugly horse drawing over her bed—I've always hated that thing. There are empty blood bags in the trash, and on her bed is that sweet, snuggly teddy bear. A fucking teddy bear.

She's a child, a little girl. She's not ready for this, not ready for love and eternity and whatever _we _are or _we _could be. Her love doesn't change anything; her love changes everything.

I slump onto the edge of the bed. Something bounces beside me. It's a book, face-down, left there carelessly. She'll ruin the spine if she leaves it like that. I pick it up, looking for something to mark her place with, when I happen to glance at the title. I'm expecting _The Hunger Games _or some other teen bullshit, but that's not it at all.

_The Call of the Wild._

It's a cheap paperback, an awful drawing of a wolf in full cry on the cover. But inside, the words are the same. She hasn't finished it yet— still has a few pages to go, a few pages until Buck finishes his transition from pet to predator, another chapter until Buck sings the song of a younger world.

It's probably her English homework, I tell myself. But I don't believe that. Why does it matter so much that she has this book? I don't know. But it does. I thought she was still in denial about what she was, still clinging to that ferocious humanity of hers. But this...if she read this, if she _understood _it, she knows what she needs to do, to keep that old humanity while finding new passion and freedom. Maybe that means I won't ruin her, won't change her. She can still be who she wants to be, even if she's with me. Maybe that's what this means.

Or maybe I'm such a mess, so scattered and thrown by her letter, that it only _seems_ to matter. I leaf through the pages without seeing. Here and there, I catch familiar snatches of text, words about wildness and civilization, about blood and lust, about gentle love and fierce pride.

I hear the front door open. Hear her footsteps—just hers—in the hall, then the stairs. Then she's standing in the doorway. She finds me sitting on the bed with the battered letter in one hand and the book in the other. I blink up at her.

She's beautiful, skin still radiating heat from the sun, warm and almost alive. She's not surprised to see me, but she's wary, doesn't run to me and try to smother me and convince me and kiss me. Good. I can't take that. Not now. Not yet.

"Reading anything good?" She jerks her chin toward my double-fisted reading material.

"Is this where you've been getting your recent _insight_?" I try to make it a sneer, turn it into sarcasm, but it doesn't work. I just want to know. "You think you get me because you read this?"

She takes a step or two forward and stops. Her gaze is steady, meets mine without flinching. "I started reading it to show you that I paid attention to you, that what matters to you, matters to me." She pauses, head cocked to the side. "And it does. But the only insight I got was about...who I am now. I guess maybe who you are, too. I don't know if it's the same for you. The wanting, the call." Yes. Yes it's the same—all that blood and all those torn jugulars and that endless, aching call for something distant and old, something I crave but can't ever fully have. If it's like that for her, if she can embrace that...well, that tears down a lot of walls.

"But maybe you and Buck do have a _little _in common, besides just the wildness." She takes another step forward.

"Please, Elena," I say, forcing my voice into familiar mocking tones, but there's a quaver there I can't quite erase."I'm _way _less hairy than Buck." She smiles at the horrible, terrible joke. I'm way off my game and she's still smiling. I put the book down, careful not to lose her place. "You haven't finished it yet," I say.

She shakes her head. "Not yet. I want to make the ending last, so I read slowly."

I can relate to that. I release my death grip on the wadded letter, smooth it out on my thigh. I stare down at it. As battered as it is now, the words are still the same. I feel her eyes on me and look up. She's even closer now, just a few feet separating us. Too close. Too soon.

"Elena," I start. I stop. I have no idea where I'm going with this. None at all. I try again. Second verse, same as the first. "Elena, I don't-" I don't _what? _I'm supposed to know what to say. I need a quip or a joke or _something _to defuse this awful tension, but all my words have run dry.

"Can I say it now? Will you let me?" she asks softly. She sounds just as scared as I feel.

_It'll always be Stefan._ _Maybe that's the problem. I have to let you go. _The words pound against me, but I look down at the letter. _I love you, Damon. I hope that's enough, because it's all I have. I love you._

I force myself to look at her. I expect there to be tears in her eyes, but there aren't. The old Elena would have been on the verge of weeping by now with all these floppy, intense emotions flying around, but she's not. She looks earnest. Determined. Strong.

"I've hurt you, Elena. You know I'll hurt you again." I'm almost begging her, but I don't know what I'm asking for.

"Yes, you have." Her voice catches and I feel about two inches tall. But she recovers. Continues: "And you will again. I'll hurt you, too. That's part of it." Is it? I don't know. Love and pain have always been all wrapped together, but I thought that was just me. Maybe she's right. But she still has to know, has to understand what it would really mean to do this.

"You know I'm not him," I remind her. I'm not safe. Not tame. I won't let her die; won't let her go.

"I don't want you to be," she says quietly. Fervently.

"And knowing all that, you still want to say it?" One last out. One last chance to walk away now before we hit the point of no return. Letters can be destroyed, but these words can't be unsaid.

She takes that last step, her legs pressing against my knees. She reaches out and tilts my face up toward her. I swallow hard. "Yes. Will you let me?"

And here's _my _last out. She's given me one, too. Aren't we considerate? All these convenient escape hatches. I could take this, bump like a motherfucker, and run like hell. I could let the fact that we'll hurt each other keep me away, let the memory of my brother and my own laundry list of sins keep me from being with her. I could let my childish fear that she'll leave keep me from trying to be happy right fucking now. If I walk away, I'll be safe. But I'll be alone.

I don't know what happens tomorrow. I don't know what happens ten minutes from now. But I know the words I want to hear her say right now.

"Please," I say.

The smile threatens to split her face clean in half. "I love you, Damon."

And that's it. So simple. Four words I've waited lifetimes for, and now they're here. And it's not enough. It'll never be enough. In a flash, I've got her pressed against the wall, caging her with my arms as if she might run at any moment. But she's not going anywhere. Because she loves me.

I dip my head so our lips are almost touching. But not quite. After all, I've kissed her before. But this is the first time I've heard those words. All I want to do is beg her to say it again and again, and I probably will at some point because I'm just that needy and pathetic. But there's something I have to tell her first—something I've already told her, but I have to repeat anyway. "In case it wasn't painfully clear, I love you." I laugh. "I love you, _too_." As incredible as it was to hear her say those words, I think I like saying them even better.

We kiss, something slow and deep. I'm not in a hurry, not rushing to tear clothes off and get to the good part, because this _is _the good part. I let my arms drop from the wall and curl around her waist, tugging her body against mine.

She's still smiling and I'm smiling and Jesus Christ, we must look like a couple of idiots, but I don't give a fuck because we're idiots _together_. She wraps her arms around my neck. "And I love you, too. For the record. Hasn't changed in the past minute."

"Smart ass," I growl, but I'm grinning, which kind of ruins the effect. Then we're kissing again and it's all hands and tongues and lips everywhere. We start toward the bed and I inch her shirt off, running my hands up the curve of her waist, over the swell of her breast. When I kissed her in Denver (when I copped a feel in Denver), she scorched my skin like a branding iron. Now she's as cool as I am, now she smells like lilies and blood.

I love her. I want her.

I pull her shirt off over her head, which means I have to break our kiss, which is irritating but worth it when I can touch more of her, run my hands across her flat belly, brush my fingers along her spine. She sighs and struggles to yank my shirt off, but she still doesn't know her own strength and winds up ripping the shirt nearly in half. We both stare at the scrap of black fabric in her hand. She looks up at me with guilty eyes.

"Sorry, that's been happening a lot lately-"

I tear the rest of the shirt from my back and push her down onto the bed. "I buy those things in bulk. Forget it."

She laughs and pulls me down on top of her. I kiss my way down her neck, across her collar bone—hard kisses, kisses which would have left bruises on a human. But now, she just sighs happily and tugs on my hair, pressing me closer, urging me on.

I slip one hand behind her and unfasten her bra. She shrugs out of the straps and I fling the thing across the room. I take a moment to admire; they're pretty great breasts. I start to lower my head to give them the attention they so obviously deserve, but she's pulling me up and kissing me again. I let her, cover her breasts with my hands, swirl my thumbs around each dark nipple while she kisses me with that fire I always knew she had, that fire she was saving just for me.

Her hands find their way between my legs, brushing against me—as if I needed any more stimulation- before moving to my straining fly. She pops the button and has my zipper halfway down when she stops.

She. Fucking. Stops. Stops kissing me, stops touching me, just looks up at me with big eyes, her lower lip caught between her teeth and I don't get it. "What is it?" I ask, totally lost. She wasn't exactly sending mixed signals when she was thrusting her tits into my hands. Fuck. Second thoughts, second guessing-

"We don't have to make love. Not that I don't _want _to," she babbles,"but after what you said last time, I'd understand if you just wanted to, you know, cuddle or something."

And she means it. This girl is trying so fucking hard to make sure I know this isn't just about sex, making sure I knows that she wants all of me. _God_, I want all of her, too. And sure, we could stop here and I'd still be happier than I've ever been. But why stop? I got what I wanted—her, with no reservations and no restraints. If she's sure about me, there's no reason to wait.

I press myself against her, give a slow grind of my hips. She arches up to meet me. "Cuddling comes _after_, Elena."

I kiss her before she can say anything else stupid. She laughs against my mouth. She finishes what she started, pulling the zipper down. I'm commando, as usual, which seems to surprise her for a minute, but she recovers and wraps her hand around me, moves it up and down with amazing, agonizing slowness.

I have to keep it the fuck together; I'm not a teenager and I'm not going to explode in her hand from sheer schoolboy satisfaction and giddiness and the fact that _Elena Gilbert has her hand around my cock. _

I ease back from her and the clothes come off, falling forgotten to the floor. When we're both stripped to our skins, we sit back and look at each other, floundering in the insanity and the rightness of this moment. Don't get me wrong, Elena's plenty easy on the eyes, but looking at her right now, it's more than that.

I've been with a lot of women. Hundreds, thousands, I lost track a long time ago. I've been with women who were more beautiful than she is, smarter than she is, stronger than she is. But none of them looked up at me like _that, _and now I can't recall a single name or face. They fade away and all that's left is this girl.

Elena recovers first and slips one arm behind my neck. She draws me down to kiss her again even as she wraps her legs around me. I haven't even done anything and she's wet and ready and I know I should pull out some crazy, kinky moves and blow her mind, but right now, I can't. There's going to be time for all that (isn't there?), but right now, I need her. And I think she needs me, too, judging by the way she's pressing against me, nipping at my lips, making that same animal sound she made when I found her before, when she was drinking blood.

I push into her—too hard maybe, too fast, maybe, but she's not complaining, she's still making that noise only now she's clawing at my back, urging me on. I oblige. And I'm not complaining either. Not just because it feels amazing (which, yeah. Hand, meet glove), but because her eyes are still riveted on mine (well, except for a couple of moments when her eyes start to roll back into her head, but I take that as a compliment), and all I can see is the truth of her words. The girl is head-over-heels in love. I hope she sees the same look on my face.

She's bucking her hips, wanting faster, harder, but I force myself to slow down. I want this to last, want it to live up to all the hype. I pull nearly all the way out before burying myself again. And again. I start slow and steady, but when I feel her tensing beneath me, hear that telltale hitch in her breathing, I vary the rhythm _just _enough to keep her hanging on the edge. I'm dangling by a thread, too.

I hear a little mewl of frustration and I'm pretty pleased with myself when I'm suddenly under her. Elena flips us over before I even have time to react. I'm still planted inside her to the hilt and the change is disorienting and exhilarating. "My turn," she says, obviously proud of her vampire trick. I'm impressed, but then she starts moving and I don't have any bandwidth to think of anything except the feel of her, tight and slick, her breasts bouncing, her eyes on mine.

I grip at her hips, trying to wrest back control, set the rhythm again, but she's having none of it. I'm thrusting up into her and she knows she's got me right where she wants me. Then it's all tighter, faster, harder, sweeter, and then it all stops and we're falling together.

A few moments later, she collapses on top of me and I hold her close, pressing my lips against her hair. She finds my hand and our fingers twine together and we lay there, not speaking, not moving, just coexisting in this comfortable, easy silence I've come to crave as much as I crave her laugh and her kindness and yeah, her body.

"Damon."

"Elena."

"I love you."

I smile. "Yeah. I know."

"You stole that from _Star Wars."_

"Still true. And I love you, too."

We're quiet again, and I'm pretty sure she's fallen asleep curled in my arms. Old fears start to creep back in, all the same impossibilities. There are still so many unanswered questions, obstacles we'll face. There's Stefan, her judgy little friends, her grappling with vampirism, our mutual tendency to fuck things up. That's not even counting all the normal couples' arguments about leaving towels on the floor and toilet seats up. I don't even know where to begin; I've never gotten much further than this in a relationship, not really. "Oh, Elena," I sigh, pulling her closer. "What do we do now?"

"Well," she says. Whoops. Guess she wasn't asleep after all. Figures. She seems to be thinking about this pretty hard, and I'm curious about what she'll say. "For now, we stay here. Make love a few more times." I am completely on board with this plan. "When we have to face the world, we get up and we do our best. Every day, for as long as we can, we try. And we remember we love each other."

She makes it sound simple. Maybe it is. Or maybe she'll go back to Stefan after all, or I'll decide her do-gooder ways are too much, or we'll just consume each other until all that's left are ashes. Maybe. _Probably. _But for a few years or even a few days of feeling like this? Maybe that's worth all the risk and the heartache.

I hope so. But I'm willing to gamble either way, because I love this girl. And finally, she loves me, too.

_The End._


End file.
